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THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

OF  SONGS  AND.  LYEICS 


WITH  NOTES 


FRANCIS  T.  PALGRAVE 

Late  Professor  of  Poetry  in  the  University  of  Oxford 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  ON 

THE    STUDY  OF    POETRY 


ALPHONSO  GERALD  NEWCOMER 

Professor  of  English  in  the  Leland  Stanford  Junior  University 


SCOTT,  FORESMAN  AND  COMPANY 
CHICAGO  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1906 

BY 

SCOTT,  FGRESMAN  AND  COMPANY 


(tofemta 


INTRODUCTION.     THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY  
DEDICATION 

PAGE 
V 

45 

PREFACE 

47 

BOOK  I  

51 

BOOK  II  

106 

BOOK  III             

183 

BOOK  IV 

247 

NOTES.  .  . 

.  .399 

INDEX  OF  WRITERS 421 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  . .  . .  .431 


2230778 


toptTrev   erepov 
cipc/xevos    aypc 


THE  STUDY  OF  POETRY 


Poetry,  the  highest  form  of  literature,  is  one 
of  the  arts  of  expression,  of  which  painting, 
sculpture,  architecture,  and  music  are  others. 
It  differs  from  these  other  arts  in  several  ways. 
It  is  less  distinctly  creative  than  music  and  archi- 
tecture, both  of  which  give  shape,  as  it  were,  to 
something  that  did  not  exist  in  any  shape  be- 
fore. It  is  less  directly  imitative  than  sculpture 
and  painting,  since  these  employ  physical  like- 
ness of  one  sort  or  another  j  whereas  poetry  works 
only  through  the  arbitrary  symbols  of  ideas 
which  we  call  words.  It  is  thus  the  least  vivid 
and  least  sensuous  of  the  arts.  It  is  also  prob- 
ably the  narrowest  in  its  appeal.  The  currency 
of  any  particular  poem  is  limited  to  the  currency 
of  the  language  in  which  it  is  written.  Ancient 
Greek  poetry  spoke  fully  only  to  the  ancient 
Greek.  If  we  would  understand  it,  we  must 
either  learn  its  language,  which  we  can  never  do 
perfectly,  or  have  it  translated  for  us  with  much 
inevitable  loss  of  beauty  and  significance.  This 
limitation  holds  to  a  certain  extent  in  the  other 
arts,  but  far  less  fatally.  Chinese  music,  for 


vi  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

instance,  does  not  affect  us  precisely  as  it  does 
the  Chinese;  yet  music,  like  painting  and  sculp- 
ture, comes  much  nearer  to  speaking  a  universal 
language. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  poetry  is  assuredly 
chief  of  the  arts,  the  most  perfect  expression  of 
the  human  spirit.  This  preeminence  it  owes  to 
its  inclusiveness.  The  color  of  the  painting,  the 
grace  of  the  statue,  the  melody  of  the  musical 
air,  may  all  be  in  some  measure  conveyed  through 
one  and  the  same  poem.  And  beyond  and  above 
these  are  aspects  of  life  and  nature,  shades  of 
thought,  and  ranges  of  feeling  which  only  poetry 
can  express.  To  take  a  very  simple  example, 
note  the  image  and  sentiment  that  constitute 
the  refrain  of  Victor  Hugo's  Guitare: 

"The  wind  that  blows  across  the  mountain-top 
Will  drive  me  mad."* 

Or  note  the  combination  of  melody  and  picture 
in  William  Dunbar's  The  Merle  and  the  Nightin- 
gale: 

"Ne'er  sweeter  noise  was  heard  by  living  man 
Than  made  this  merry,  gentle  nightingale: 
Her  sound  went  with  the  river,  as  it  ran 

Out  through  the  fresh  and  flourished  lusty  vale.'* 

These  effects  are  possible  only  in  poetry. 

*Le  vent  qui  vient  a  travers  la  montagne 
Me  rendra  fou. 


The  Study  of  Poetry  vii 

THE  NATURE  AND  ATTRIBUTES  OF  POETRY 

Many  have  attempted  to  define  poetry,  but 
every  definition  leaves  something  unsaid.  It  is 
better  therefore  to  forego  definition  and  rest 
content  with  description.  And  the  first  thing 
to  be  said  has  been  best  said  by  Shakspere  when 
he  describes  the  poet  as  being  "of  imagination 
all  compact."  Imagination  is  the  magician  that 
gives  poetry  its  peculiar  power.  Now  imagi- 
nation may  work  very  simply,  merely  bringing 
back  the  vision  of  things  past  and  done,  repro- 
ducing after  a  fashion  what  the  senses  cannot 
reproduce.  But  it  often  becomes  in  a  meas- 
ure creative.  It  is  often  pleased,  for  instance, 
to  reshape  what  has  been  seen  or  experienced, 
softening  what  is  harsh,  illuminating  what  is 
obscure,  selecting,  it  may  be,  the  more  congruous 
elements  and  combining  them  into  lovelier  crea- 
tions of  its  own.  Or  it  may  take  the  simple 
event  or  object  and  clothe  it  with  a  multitude 
of  relations,  penetrating  everywhere  to  the  essen- 
tial life  and  meaning  of  things.  Or  it  may, 
in  the  exercise  of  a  still  higher  function,  assume 
to  see  in  the  material  some  type  or  symbol 
of  the  spiritual  and  through  the  one  "body 
forth"  the  other.  But  in  whatever  manner 
the  imagination  may  assert  itself,  wherever 
it  is  active  there  is  the  possibility  of  poetry; 


viii  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

and  unless  it  be  active,  there  can  be  no  poetry 
at  all. 

But  is  not  poetry  then  quite  as  often  con- 
cerned with  fiction  as  with  truth?  Yes.  if  we 
choose  to  put  it  so.  But  fiction  is  not  the  opposite 
of  truth.  Fiction,  to  be  sure,  means  something 
that  is  not  fact,  something  that  has  no  exact 
counterpart  in  the  actual  world,  and  poetry  pre- 
sents not  a  little  such  departure  from  the  literal, 
physical  truth.  Take,  for  example,  Mercutio's 
description  of  Queen  Mab  in  Romeo  and  Juliet'. 

"She  comes 

In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 
On  the  forefinger  of  an  alderman, 
Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies 
Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep; 
Her  waggon-spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs."  etc. 

When  Romeo  protests  that  Mercutio  is  talking 
of  nothing,  Mercutio  admits  that  he  talks  of 
dreams 

"Which  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain, 
Begot  of  nothing  but  vain  fantasy." 

Plato  was  disposed  to  condemn  such  fantasy, 
and  would  have  had  no  poets  in  his  ideal  Re- 
public, because  they  were  so  much  given  to 
reciting  fables  of  imaginary  gods  and  heroes. 
But  such  a  condemnation  is  too  sweeping. 
Shakspere's  invention  of  a  Queen  Mab  is  not 
meant  to  deceive  and  can-  do  no  harm;  on  the 


The  Study  of  Poetry  ix 

contrary  it  gives  much  innocent  delight.  It  is 
fancy,  not  falsification.  Moreover,  the  poet's 
fancy,  even  while  it  creates  fictions,  may  be  pre- 
senting under  this  guise  essential  spiritual  truth. 
The  hell  and  purgatory  and  paradise  which 
Dante  describes  in  such  concrete  terms  in  his 
Divina  Commedia  cannot  possibly  exist  just  as 
he  imagined  them,  but  they  are  no  less  essentially 
true  in  their  portrayal  of  states  of  sin,  suffering, 
and  happiness  in  the  human  soul.  In  such  a 
case  the  imagery  of  the  poem  may  be  regarded 
as  fiction  if  we  please,  but  the  poem  is  none  the 
less  truth  in  the  highest  sense — truth  that  is  not 
to  be  tested  by  the  low  and  imperfect  test  of 
mere  physical  actuality.  In  fact  we  get  the 
highest  poetry  only  when  there  is  a  fusion  of 
both  fact  and  fancy  in  the  embodiment  of  some 
lofty  imaginative  truth. 

Along  with  the  question  of  truth  arises  the 
question  of  beauty.  Poetry,  as  one  of  the  fine 
arts,  should  work  through  a  medium  of  beauty 
and  to  beautiful  ends.  In  any  art  we  may  at 
times  find  material  which  is  in  itself  unlovely, 
but  such  material  must  be  so  presented  as 
to  give  no  offense,  or  the  art  ceases  to  be 
art.  The  actual  suffering  of  Laocoon  and  his 
sons  in  the  coils  of  the  serpents  would  have  been 
an  intolerable  thing  to  witness,  but  the  symbolic 


x  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

representation  of  it  in  marble,  with  the  signs  of 
physical  pain  softened  and  subordinated  to  the 
spiritual  expression,  is  contemplated  with  admira- 
tion; the  observer  is  almost  made  to  wish,  says 
Winckelmann,  that  he  could  bear  misery  like 
that  great  man.  Perhaps  poetry  ventures  farther 
than  the  plastic  arts  in  depicting  physical  or 
moral  deformity  and  pain,  but  it  does  so  only 
to  heighten  some  contrasted  beauty,  or  to  body 
forth  some  truth  the  deep  significance  of  which 
is  in  itself  a  beauty.  If  it  stops  short  with  the 
presentation  of  deformity,  it  is  not  poetry.  The 
wrath  of  Achilles  is  redeemed  by  his  friendship 
for  Patroclus  and  his  compassion  on  Priam. 
The  villainy  of  lago,  as  portrayed  by  Shakspere, 
ultimately  heightens  our  admiration  of  moral 
worth.  So,  also,  the  barest  philosophical  truth, 
having  in  itself  neither  beauty  nor  ugliness,  may 
be  presented  in  so  engaging  a  form  as  to  take 
at  once  the  name  of  poetry.  To  be  convinced 
of  this,  it  is  only  necessary  to  recall  the  finished 
couplets  of  an  artist  like  Pope. 

But  whether  poetry  present  to  us  truth  or 
fiction,  beauty  or  ugliness,  it  is  absolutely  essen- 
tial that  it  be  the  product  of  feeling  and  that  it 
arouse  feeling.  It  might  almost  be  said  that  the 
beginning  and  end  of  poetry  is  delight— delight, 
that  is,  in  no  narrow  sense  of  mere  amusement. 


The  Study  of  Poetry  xi 

out  in  a  sense  which  includes  the  whole  rango  el 
emotional  satisfaction.  This  view  of  it  is  not 
universal.  The  traditional  Greek,  view  made 
delight  incidental,  or  a  means  only,  regarding  as 
the  end  of  poetry  the  teaching  of  action  and 
character.  But  poetry  in  which  this  end  is 
deliberately  sought  is  invariably  characterized 
as  philosophic  or  didactic;  and  the  terms  imply 
an  inferior  degree  of  poetic  quality.  The  highest 
poetry  will  no  doubt  teach,  but  that  poetry 
which  teaches  directly  is  never  the  highest,  while 
that  which  does  nothing  but  teach  is  not,  prop- 
erly .speaking,  poetry  at  all.  The  direct  aim  of 
great  poetry  is  to  stir  the  nobler  emotions,  leav- 
ing them  to  work  out  their  own  purposes  in  the 
moral  world;  the  ends  of  morality  may  be 
served,  but  they  are  served  best  only  when  noth- 
ing lessens  the  purity  of  the  imparted  delight. 
The  cry  of  "art  for  art's  sake"  becomes  thus 
"art  for  art's  sake  because  that  is  also  art  for 
morality's  sake." 

So  much  for  the  general  nature  and  function 
of  poetry.  Let  us  now  pass  to  a  consideration 
of  certain  incidental  attributes  which  further 
distinguish  it  from  prose — the  ordinary  prose  of 
science,  of  record,  and  communication.  Here 
our  first  guide  shall  be  Milton,  who,  in  differ- 
•entiating  poetry  from  logic,  declared  it  to  bf 


xii  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

"less  subtle  and  fine  but  more  simple,  sensuous, 
and  passionate." 

"Simple,  Sensuous',  and  Passionate." — The. 
direct  way  to  the  heart  is  not  through  the  reason, 
but  through  the  senses  and  emotions  and  the 
language  of  the  senses  and  emotions.  Matter- 
of-fact  exposition,  long-drawn  argument,  refine- 
ments of  logic,  are  manifestly  out  of  place  in 
poetry.  It  must  keep  mainly  to  the  things  with 
which  all  men  are  familiar,  and  it  must  put  those 
things  in  the  language  of  experience.  Love  and 
death,  for  instance,  are  themes  of  this  kind,  and 
while  it  is  true  that  few  things  could  be  made 
the  subjects  of  subtler  logic  or  p'rofounder  specu- 
lation, when  poetry  approaches  them  it  prefers 
to  do  so  in  the  attitude  of  the  simplest  human 
being  who  enjoys  and  suffers.  In  Wordsworth's 
poem,  "She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways," 
there  is  not  a  thought  or  an  image  that  cannot 
be  grasped  immediately  by  the  most  untutored 
reader.  Nor  does  it  seem  that  any  elaboration 
of  thought  or  expression  could  convey  more 
vividly  the  sorrow  of  bereavement  than  the 
simple  concluding  lines, 

"But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh 
The  difference  to  me!" 

The  prevailing  sensuousness  of  poetry  is  well 
shown  by  the  fact  that  the  poet  draws  a  large 


The  Study  of  Poetry  xiii 

proportion  of  his  images  from  the  world  of  sense 
— of  eye  and  ear,  of  taste  and  smell  and  feeling. 
So  true  is  this  of  early  epic  poetry  that  in  all  the 
Iliad  there  is  but  a  single  figure  drawn  from  the 
operations  of  the  mind.*  Note  how  Keats's  Eve 
of  St.  Agnes,  one  of  the  most  widely  known 
and  admired  of  modern  poems,  abounds  in 
pictures  and  images  of  sense.  Mark  in  the  more 
ethereal  To  a  Skylark  of  Shelley  the  same  con- 
creteness  of  imagery — "Like  a  cloud  of  fire," 
"Like  a  star  of  heaven,"  "Like  a  rose  embow- 
ered," "Like  a  high-born  maiden  in  a  palace 
tower."  Could  winter  be  more  vividly  portrayed 
than  in  Shakspere's  lines: 

"When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail?" 

Moreover,  in  poetry  abstract  conceptions  are 
constantly  put  into  concrete  form.  When  we 
are  conscious  that  time  is  rapidly  passing,  the 
poetic  faculty  within  us  leaps  at  once  to  an  image 
and  says,  "Time  flies;"  and  Scott,  in  his  stir- 
ing  Hunting  Song,  exclaims: 

"Time,  stern  huntsman!  who  can  baulk, 
Staunch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk!" 

*Iliad,  XV.,  80. 


SZT  Palgravs's  Golden  Treasury 

In  the  same  manner  Shakspere,  with  the  reverse 
conception  writes: 

"To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time, 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death." 

It  must  not,  however,  be  assumed  that  sim- 
plicity and  sensuousness  are  necessary  and  uni- 
versal attributes  of  poetry,  nor  that  the  test  of 
great  poetry  lies  in  its  appeal  to  the  untutored 
mind.  To  maintain  this  would  be  to  limit  poetry 
at  once  to  the  simplest  lyrics  or  ballads  arid  to 
set  the  concert-hall  song  above  the  Shaksperian 
drama.  Milton  was  merely  drawing  a  distinc- 
tion, not  proposing  a  precise  definition.  There 
are  many  kinds  of  poetry;  and  there  are  vary- 
ing degrees  of  simplicity  and  sensuousness,  as 
there  are  varying  degrees  of  intelligence  to  be 
reached.  What  is  simple  to  one  man  to-day 
might  not  have  been  so  yesterday  and  may 
never  be  so  to  another.  The  poet>  cannot  sink 
always  to  the  level  of  babes.  He  may,  indeed, 
address  himself  to  most  select  audiences,  basing 
his  appeals  upon  less  familiar  experiences  and 
involving  them  at  times  in  subtle  webs  of  thought. 
Only,  he  will  keep  more  on  the  side  of  sensuous- 
ness  and  simplicity  than  if  he  were  'writing 
philosophical  prose. 


The  Study  of  Poetry  I 

Moreover,  there  is  in  Milton's  statement  a 
third  element  to  be  considered,  namely,  that 
poetry  is  marked  by  passion.  Perhaps  this  is 
the  most  important  of  the  three.  We  have 
already  remarked  how  essential  it  is  that  poetry 
be  based  upon  feeling.  The  "noble  emotions" 
of  which  Ruskin  makes  so  much  in  all  art,  the 
"spiritual  excitement"  which  Arnold  considers 
a  necessary  condition  of  lofty  style,  must  be 
present  in  some  degree;  and  no  doubt  if  they 
are  present  in  sufficient  degreej  if  only  the  poet 
be  impassioned  enough,  his  emotional  intensity 
and  elevation  will  lift  his  thoughts,  however 
abstruse,  into  the  region  of  poetry. 

Generic,  or  Specific? — Is  the  generic  or  the 
specific  the  better  suited  to  the  poet's  purpose? 
The  fact  that  poetry  shows  a  preference  for  the 
simple,  sensuous,  and  concrete,  might  seem  to 
decide  the  question  at  once  in  favor  of  the 
specific.  Dr.  Johnson,  however,  has  recorded  in 
Rasselas  a  somewhat  different  opinion: 

"The  business  of  a  poet,"  said  Imlac,  "is  to  examine, 
not  the  individual,  but  the  species;  to  remark  general 
properties  and  large  appearances.  He  does  not  number 
the  streaks  of  the  tulip,  or  describe  the  different  shades  in 
the  verdure  of  the  forest.  He  is  to  exhibit  in  his  por- 
traits of  nature  such  prominent  and  striking  features  as 
recall  the  original  to  every  mind,  and  must  neglect  the 
minuter  discriminations,  which  one  may  have  remarked 
and  another  have  neglected,  for  those  characteristics 
which  are  alike  obvious  to  vigilance  and  carelessness." 


2  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

The  ideas  and  tastes  of  the  eighteenth  century 
in  these  matters  were  somewhat  different  from 
our  own.  Johnson,  for  instance,  in  The  Vanity 
of  Human  Wishes,  contents  himself  in  his  enu- 
meration of  the  things  that  make  up  the  pomp 
and  splendor  of  a  king's  life,  with  such  vaguely 
outlined  elements  as  "the  regal  palace,"  "the 
luxurious  board."  Almost  equally  generalized 
is  Pope's  description  of  the  happy  man, — 

"Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread, 

Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  winter,  fire." 

In  marked  contrast  to  this  are  such  lines  as 
Tennyson's 

"The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four, 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door." 

Each  poet  pursues  his  purpose  consistently.  The 
"flocks"  and  "trees"  of  Pope  are  as  appropriate 
to  his  generalized  landscape  as  the  "elms"  and 
"poplars"  of  Tennyson  are  to  his  particular  one. 
All  we  can  say  is  that  there  is  a  preference  on 
the  pare  of  probably  the  larger  class  of  poets 
for  specific  themes  and  methods — a  preference 
sometimes  so  marked  that  a  poet  like  Keats 
will  swell  the  description  of  even  an  imaginary 
bower  with  a  wealth  of  "botanical  circumstance." 


The  Study  of  Poetry  3 

These  differences  are  really  but  differences  of 
emphasis  which  help  us  to  define  more  exactly 
the  limits  of  poetry.  We  may  agree  with  Dr. 
Johnson  in  the  main,  yet  feel  that  he  went  too 
far  in  his  restrictions.  That  which  is  obvious 
to  "vigilance"  only,  should  certainly  be  as  good 
poetic  material  as  that  which  is  obvious  to 
"carelessness"  merely.  But  it  should  always 
be  obvious, — not  necessarily  to  the  whole  world, 
for  that  would  sink  poetry  to  the  level  of  the 
commonplace,  but  obvious  to  the  alert,  the  dis- 
cerning, and  the  imaginative,  in  a  word,  to  the 
poet  himself.  Things  that  are  recondite,  that 
can  be  discovered  and  set  forth  only  by  abstract 
reasoning,  are  not  proper  material  for  poetry. 
Neither  are  those  natural  phenomena  which 
reveal  themselves  only  to  microscopic  examina- 
tion or  which  require  the  test  of  scientific 
analysis.  Such  things  are  the  material  of  the 
philosopher  and  the  scientist,  and  should  be 
handled  through  the  medium  of  prose. 

To  state  the  principle  broadly  then,  the  poet 
may  safely  generalize  only  up  to  the  point  where 
perception  readily  follows,  and  he  may  be  specific 
only  down  to  the  same  point.  Such  a  general 
truth  as 

"Slow  rises  worth  by  poverty  depressed" 
is    poetic    material    because    it    is    based    upon 


4  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

observation  of  the  more  immediate  kind,  and 
is  readily  verified  by  most  men's  experience. 
But  such  a  scientific  generalization  as,  "In 
animal  life  the  ascent  of  the  scale  of  creation  is 
a  process  of  differentiation  of  functions/'  goes 
beyond  the  proper  realm  of  poetry.  So  with 
particularization.  The  poet  may  number  the 
streaks  of  a  tulip  provided  he  can  do  it  with  a 
glance  of  the  eye.  If  the  streaks  are  too  faint 
or  too  numerous  for  that,  the  numbering  be- 
comes a  scientific  and  not  a  poetic  process. 
Even  the  numbering  with  a  glance  of  the  eye 
may  be  unpoetic  if  done  for  other  purposes  than 
delight.  On  the  whole,  it  is  plain  what  Dr. 
Johnson  would  have  excluded — very  minute 
details,  accidental  peculiarities,  methodically  pre- 
cise description  and  classification.  In  further 
illustration,  take  Byron's  description  of  the  Lake 
of  Geneva  as  viewed  from  the  castle  of  Chillon: 

"A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
The  massy  waters  meet  and  flow." 

This  might  seem  to  be  a  violation  of  our  prin- 
ciple. But  a  second  thought  shows  that  it  is 
not.  "Nine  hundred  and  fifty-five  feet"  would 
be  such  a  violation,  because  we  should  then 
have  an  exact  reference  to  an  abstract  standard 
of  measurement.  The  round  number  makes  no 
pretence  to  accuracy,  even  though  the  poet  goes 


The  Study  of  Poetry  5 

on  to  speak  of  a  fathom-line.  The  reader  gets 
merely  an  impression  of  vast  depth.  Whether 
the  statement  even  approaches  exactness  is  a 
matter  of  comparative  indifference.  Most  fre- 
quently, indeed,  the  poet  avoids  all  reference 
to  such  standards  of  measurement  as  feet,  hours, 
and  the  like.  When  Spenser  would  tell  us  the 
time,  he  says: 

"By  this  the  northern  Wagoner  had  set." 

When  Keats  would  indicate  a  certain  distance, 
he  writes: 

"About  a  young  bird's  flutter  from  the  wood." 

The  legions  of  Satan,  according  to  Milton,  lay 
on  the  lake  of  fire, 

"Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strow  the  brooks 
In  Vallombrosa." 

In  every  case  we  are  referred  directly  to  the 
powers  of  sense-perception. 

Suggestion    and    Association.  —  While     poetry 
sometimes  achieves  its  end  of  giving  delight  by 
the  simple  method  of  filling  the  mind  with  pleas-  { 
ing  tales  and  pictures,  more  often    perhaps,  theN  I 
end  is  attained  by  opening  avenues  of  contempla- 
tion and  stimulating  the  mind  to  create  its  own    } 
images.     By  the  art  of  suggestion,  or  by  playing    ) 


6  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

upon  the  law  of  association,  the  poet  may  set 
up  such  a  creative  activity  in  the  mind  of  his 
auditor  as  yields  perhaps  the  keenest  of  all 
imaginative  pleasures.  For  instance,  he  may 
compress  a  dozen  images  into  a  single  word,  as 
when  Collins  speaks  of  "sallow  Autumn";  or 
by  a  striking  epithet  he  may  start  a  long  train 
of  thought,  as  when  Shakspere  discourses  of  the 
"hungry  ocean."  An  admirable  instance  of  the 
effectiveness  of  suggestion  may  be  seen  in  the 
word  "silent"  as  used  by  Keats  in  the  last  line 
of  his  sonnet,  On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's 
Homer,  The  ellipses  so  frequently  found  in 
verse,  the  compounding  of  nouns,  the  suppres- 
sion of  verbs,  the  resort  to  exclamatory  forms, 
all  owe  part  of  their  effectiveness  to  the  fact 
that  they  substitute  suggestion  for  complete 
expression. 

The  laws  of  mental  association  may  likewise 
be  counted  upon  to  stimulate  this  imaginative 
activity.  Words  carry  with  them  long  trains 
of  associated  ideas,  varying  of  course  with  the 
knowledge  and  experience  of  the  individual. 
The  poet  instinctively  seeks  that  language 
which  is  richest  in  associations.  Milton,  in 
V 'Allegro  and  II  Penseroso,  plays  upon  class- 
ical mythology .  and  literature  in  a  way  to  give 
intense  delight  to  those  versed  in  that  lore. 


The  Study  of  Poetry  7 

The  first  stanza  of  Shelley's  Ode  to  the  West 
Wind  calls  up  in  succession  all  that  we  have 
read  or  known  of  the  mysteries  of  witchcraft, 
of  the  horrors  of  plague,  of  funeral  trains,  muster- 
ing armies,  and  shepherded  flocks. 

"O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 
Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes!     O  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 
The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 
Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill: 
Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  Preserver;  Hear,  oh  hear!" 

Imagination  and  Fancy. — We  have  already 
used  the  word  imagination  in  a  broad  sense  as  / 
virtually  synonymous  with  all  poetic  or  creative  J 
activity.  In  a  somewhat  narrower  sense,  how- 
ever, it  is  applied  only  to  the  higher  and  nobler 
phases  of  this  activity,  while  the  word  fancy  is 
employed  to  distinguish  the  lower  phases.  The 
marks  of  fancy  are  to  be  found  in  such  poetry 
as  deals  with  the  merely  pretty  or  amusing,  the 
diminutive,  the  superficial,  the  ephemeral,  the 
sentimental,  and  the  like.  At  the  lowest  it 
may  descend  to  the  palpably  false.  When  Pope, 


8  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

for  instance,  in  one  of  his  early  pastorals,  de- 
clares that  at  the  nightingale's  song  "all  the 
aerial  audience  clapped  their  wings,"  he  strains 
his  fancy  quite  to  the  verge  of  the  ridiculous. 
Most  of  the  stock  images  of  poetry,  like  "rosy 
cheeks"  and  "ivory  brow,"  and  especially  those 
which  attempt  to  adorn  nature  with  the  attri- 
butes of  art,  such  as  "silken  wings"  and  "jewelled 
skies/'  must  be  regarded  as  creations  of  a  not 
very  worthy  fancy.  From  its  worthier  exercise, 
however,  may  spring  such  an  admirable  poem 
as,  for  instance,  Gray's  playful  Ode  on  the  Death 
of  a  Favorite  Cat,  or  the  numerous  graceful 
trifles  of  Herrick,  or  the  best  of  the  sentimental 
effusions  of  Moore.  A  good  example  of  fancy 
passing  into  imagination  may  be  seen  in  Gray's 
Ode  on  the  Pleasure  Arising  from  Vicissitude. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  heat  and  glow  of  the 
pure  imagination  are  at  once  stronger  and 
steadier  than  the  passing  gleams  of  fancy. 
Imagination  ranges  beyond  the  immediate,  deals 
freely  with  the  vast  in  space  or  power,  penetrates 
appearances  and  seizes  and  reveals  whatever  is 
fundamentally  true,  beautiful,  and  good.  It 
is  the  native  gift  of  the  supreme  poets.  We  may 
trace  its  workings  upon  every  page  of  Shak- 
spere,  the  greatest  master  of  both  the  secrets  of 
nature  and  the  passions  of  men.  It  illuminates 


The  Study  of  Poetry  9 

as  with  a  kind  of  celestial  radiance  the  lines  of 
Wordsworth's  inspired  odes.  Unconditioned  by 
time  or  space,  it  freely  transcends  fact,  but 
never  truth.  Ideal  truth  is  indeed  one  of  its 
essential  characteristics.  When  Wordsworth 
makes  Nature  say  of  Lucy  that 

"Beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 
Shall  pass  into  her  face," 

we  are  at  first  startled  as  by  something  merely 
fanciful  and  untrue.  But  a  second  thought 
makes  us  see  that  this  is  no  idle  fancy,  but  the 
profoundest  of  imaginative  truth.  Indeed,  we 
may  conceive  it  to  be  the  literal  fact — that 
harmonies  which  pass  through  the  senses  to 
the  mind  may  be  reproduced  in  the  organs  of 
the  body.  Literalness,  hdwever,  is  no  necessary 
quality.  When  Milton  ventures  upon  the  high 
imaginings  of  a  Paradise  Lost,  he  does  not  bind 
himself  to  fact,  that  is,  to  actual  human  experi- 
ence. Much  of  the  machinery  of  that  great  poem 
is  a  palpable  fiction.  Through  its  daring  sym- 
bolism, however,  it  sets  forth  what  Milton  con- 
ceived to  be  the  deepest  truths  of  the  moral  and 
spiritual  universe. 

Select  Diction.  —  Coleridge  said  that  whereas 
prose  is  simply  "words  in  their  best  order," 
poetry,  in  his  definition,  is  "the  best  words  in 
the  best  order."  Naturally-  poetry,  being  con- 


10  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

secrated  to  the  highest  spiritual  purposes,  seeks 
a  consecrated  language.  It  avoids  all  words 
that  might  shock  or  offend.  It  clings  instinctively 
to  what  is  old  and  well-tried.  Thus  a  greater 
archaism  is  not  only  permitted  to  poetry  than 
to  prose — it  is  almost  forced  upon  it;  and  so 
we  find  in  it  certain  forms,  like  "wast," 
"yon,"  "trod,"  "burthen,"  which  prose  no 
longer  uses.  Now  and  then  a  poet  will  strike 
out  boldly  into  new  fields,  forcing  to  his  pur- 
poses a  very  modern  or  even  local  and  technical 
diction.  But  the  difficulty  is  great  and  the 
attempt  dangerous,  requiring  for  success  a  high 
order  of  imagination  and  taste.*  On  the  other 
hand,  verse-writers  sometimes  betray  an  exces- 
sive tendency  to  keep  to  a  special  "poetic" 
vocabulary.  They  think,  for  instance,  that  they 
must  write  of  "crystal"  instead  of  "glass,"  of 
"steed"  or  "courser"  instead  of  "horse,"  of 
"youths  and 'maidens"  instead  of  "boys  and 
girls."  Poetry  has  doubtless  shown  a  general 
preference  for  the  former  of  these  terms,  a 
preference  stronger  at  certain  periods  in  the 
history  of  our  literature  than  at  others.  But 
the  preference  is  not  always  justifiable,  since  it 

*Perhaps  as  good  an  example  of  this  as  could  be  found 
(for  by  the  nature  of  the  case  one  is  practically  compelled 
to  select  from  contemporary  verse)  is  Mr.  Kipling's 
Me  Andrew's  Hymn. 


The  Study  of  Poetry  11 

does  not  follow  that  what  is  common  is  common- 
place or  that  what  is  homely  is  unpoetical. 
Sometimes  the  deepest  feelings  and  the  most 
sacred  associations  go  with  the  familiar,  homely 
word. 

Indeed,  poetry  usually  prefers  the  simple 
word.  This  springs  logically  from  the  sim- 
plicity which  we  have  seen  to  be  characteristic 
of  poetry  in  general.  Long,  hard  words  are 
learned  comparatively  late  in  life;  they  have 
not  gathered  about  them  so  many  associations, 
nor  do  they  call  them  up  so  readily;  in  fact, 
they  do  not  usually  stand  for  the  simpler  human 
feelings  and  relations,  but  rather  for  the  refine- 
ments of  mature  life  and  experience,  when  love 
passes  into  regard,  and  ardent  will  into  prefer- 
ence, and  joy  into  a  measured  gratification.  Or 
they  stand  for  the  subtle  distinctions  of  philo- 
sophic and  scientific  analysis,  with  which  poetry 
has  little  or  no  concern.  But  we  may  not  be 
dogmatic  on  this  point,  nor  attempt  to  fix 
arbitrary  limits.  Milton  employs  a  highly  Latin- 
ized diction  to  suit  the  dignified  character  of 
his  epic,  and  he  has  clearly  felt  the  poetic  beauty 
of  certain  long  and  resonant  proper  names.  In 
the  sonnets  of  Rossetti,  too,  may  be  found  many- 
such  words  as  "desultory,"  "regenerate,"  "prim- 
ordial," "irretrievably,"  " inexorable  supremacy, " 


12  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

used  nearly  always  with  entire  felicity  both  of 
sound  and  sense.  Everything  of  course  depends 
upon  the  atmosphere  of  the  poem,  the  effect 
aimed  at,  and  the  taste  and  skill  of  the  poet. 

Poetry  prefers  the  beautiful  word — a  point  in 
which  again  the  taste  of  the  poet  is  supreme 
arbiter.  When  Thomson  writes  "atween"  in- 
stead of  "between"  and  Tennyson  "marish" 
instead  of  "marsh,"  we  feel  that  they  were 
drawn  by  some  peculiar  beauty  which,  rightly 
or  wrongly,  they  conceived  to  lie  in  those  forms. 
Poems  like  Shelley's  To  a  Skylark,  or  Keats's 
Ode  to  Autumn,  or  Poe's  The  Raven  are  filled 
with  the  most  beautiful  and  melodious  words 
the  language  possesses.  Of  course,  when  a  dif- 
ferent effect  is  desired,  uncouth  and  dissonant 
words  may  be  used;  but  this  is  in  pursuance  of 
a  special  or  temporary  purpose,  in  which  poetry 
still,  by  nicely  suiting  the  means  to  the  end, 
achieves  that  ultimate  and  integral  beauty  which 
lies  in  the  perfect  harmonization  of  all  elements. 

Figurative  Language. — Figurative  language  is 
preeminently  the  language  of  the  imagination, 
which  is  constantly  detecting  subtle  resemblances 
or  clothing  abstractions  in  visible  forms.  It  is 
'also  the  natural  language  of  emotion,  which  not 
only  employs  those  rhetorical  figures — exclama- 
tion, and  the  like — that  serve  to  make  expres- 


The  Study  of  Poetry  13 

sion  more  brief  and  vivid,  but  which,  sometimes 
sees  falsely  and  therefore,  without  realizing  it, 
-speaks  in  hyperbole  or  under  an  untruthful 
image.  When,  for  example,  in  an  excess  of  fear 
or  rage,  or  out  of  excessive  love  or  sympathy, 
one  attributes  life  and  sensation  to  that  which 
does  not  have  them,  he  commits  what  Ruskin  has 
called  a  pathetic  fallacy — a  fallacy,  that  is,  of  the 
feelings,  natural  and  justifiable,  and  not  to  be  con- 
fused with  the  inexcusable  fallacy  of  a  cold- 
blooded conceit.  Lyric  poetry  is  full  of  the 
pathetic  fallacy,  as  it  is  full  indeed  of  figures  of 
every  kind.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  to  be 
observed  that  some  narrative  poetry  of  the 
highest  type — Homer's  Iliad,  for  example,  and 
Dante's  Divina  Commedia — indulges  in  few  fig- 
ures, and  those  mostly  of  simple  comparison, 
such  as  the  simile,  in  which  there  is  no  shadow 
of  mental  confusion.  Yet  figures  have  remained, 
first  and  last,  one  of  the  great  distinguishing 
marks  of  poetic  expression. 

POETIC  FORM 

Metre. — Nearly  all  definitions  of  poetry  agree 
in  requiring  that  "ts  language  shall  be  measured, 
that  is,  be  given  metrical  form.  Metre,  as  applied 
to  English  verse,  may  be  defined  as  a  recurrence 
of  accents  or  stresses  at  intervals  measurably 


14  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

and  continuously  regular.  The  rhythm  of  prose 
is  distinguished  from  metre  in  not  being  con- 
tinuous or  so  measurably  regular.  Metre  obeys 
a  discoverable  law.  Without  going  into  the 
history  of  English  verse  or  troubling  ourselves 
about  the  difference  between  accent  and  the 
classical  "quantity,"  we  may  give  a  very  simple 
outline  of  English  metrics  as  practiced  in  modern 
poetry. 

The  Foot. — The  metrical  unit  is  the  foot. 
This  consists  of  one  stressed  syllable  in  combina- 
tion with  either  one  or  two  unstressed  syllables. 

The  two-syllable  feet  are  the  IAMB  (  ^  '_  )  and 
the  TROCHEE  (  '_  ^  ). 

The  three-syllable  feet  are  the  ANAPEST  ( ^  ^  1) 
and  the  DACTYL  (  !_  _  ^  ). 

To  these  may  be  added  the  SPONDEE  ( ),  a 

foot  of  two  heavy  or  nearly  equally  stressed 
syllables,  which  is  employed  as  a  frequent  sub- 
stitute for  the  dactyl  in  dactylic  verse. 

Frgm  this  scheme  it  is  apparent  that  English 
verse  falls  naturally  into  two  great  divisions  or 
classes — the  iambic-trochaic  class,  or  what  may 
be  called  duple  measure,  and  the  anapestic- 
dactylic  class,  or  triple  measure. 

Iambic  and  Trochaic  Measures. — It  is  not 
always  possible  to  tell  whether  we  shall  call  a 
given  duple-measure  verse  iambic  or  trochaic. 


The  Study  of  Poetry  15 

From  the  middle  portion  of  the  lines  we  could 
not  tell.  If,  however,  the  lines  begin  regularly 
with  a  light  syllable,  we  call  the  measure  iambic; 
if  with  a  stressed  syllable,  trochaic.  Gray's 
Elegy  is  iambic: 

t  >  >  i    __       * 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 

Ambrose  Philips's  To  Charlotte  Pulteney  (except- 
ing its  last  two  lines)  is  trochaic: 

Timely  blossom,  Infant  fair. 

Gray's  The  Bard  is  predominantly  iambic,  with 
some  trochaic  lines.  Milton's  U Allegro  and  II 
Penseroso  are  compounded  almost  equally  of  the 
two  measures. 

In  general,  the  iambic  movement  is  the  more 
dignified  and  stately;  the  trochaic  is  lighter,  with 
a  tripping  effect.  It  may  be  noted  further  that 
the  iambic  is  the  favorite  English  measure,  in- 
cluding a  far  greater  proportion  of  verse  than 
all  the  other  measures  combined. 

Anapestic  and  Dactylic  Measures. — The  two 
movements  in  triple  measure  are  likewise  not 
always  kept  distinct.  Cowper's  The  Solitude  of 
Alexander  Selkirk  is  an  anapestic  poem: 


I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey; 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute. 


16  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

Hood's  The  Bridge  of  Sighs  is  dactylic: 

One  more  Unfortunate 
Weary  of  breath. 

Scott's  PibrocJ  of  Donuil  Dhu  is  mainly  dactylic, 
with  at  least  one  stanza — the  third — almost 
entirely  anapeotic.  It  should  be  noted  that  this 
triple  measure  very  freely  admits  duple  feet  as 
substitutes  for  the  triple;  a  good  example  is 
Wolfe's  The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore: 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note. 

The    Line. — The   line   is  named    according  to 
'the  number 'of  feet  it  contains.     A  line  of 

One  foot-  =  MONOMETER  Five  feet  =  PENTAMETER 
Two  feet   =  DIMETER        Six  feet     =  HEXAMETER 
Three  feet  =  TRIMETER      Seven  feet  =  HEPTAMETER 
Four  feet  =  TETRAMETER  Eight  feet  =  OCTOMETER 

The  line  is  then  further  described,  according  to 
the  character  of  its  feet,  as  iambic,  trochaic, 
dactylic,  or  anapestic.  Thus  the  line  quoted 
above  from  Gray  is  iambic  pentameter,  that 
from  Philips  is  trochaic  tetrameter,  (wanting  a 
final  light  syllable),  and  that  from  Wolfe  is 
anapestic  tetrameter. 

The  lines  most  commonly  used  in  lyric  verse 


The  Study  of  Poetry  17 

are  from  three  to  five  feet  in  length;  in  narrative 
and  dramatic  verse,  from  four  to  six  feet.  The 
great  English  verse*  is  unquestionably  the  iambic 
pentameter.  It  is  used,  with  rhyme,  for  most 
long  narrative  poems  of  the  romantic  cast,  and 
without  rhyme  (blank)  for  narrative  of  the 
severer  epic  type  and  for  the  drama.  From  its 
former  use  it  has  obtained  the  name  of  the  Eng- 
lish "heroic."  An  iambic  hexameter,  when  used 
as  an  occasional  variant  in  pentameter  verse, 
goes  by  the  French  name  of  "  Alexandrine." 

Metrical  Variations. — Thus  far  we  have  de- 
scribed verse  as  if  it  were  absolutely  regular — 
as  a  child  always  wishes  to  recite  it,  with 
regular  and  equally  stressed  accents.  Poets, 
however,  in  their  practice  are  constantly  intro- 
ducing variations,  and  there  can  be  no  proper 
reading  of  poetry  without  taking  account  of  the 
numerous  departures  from  the  normal  foot  and 
line.  The  variations  are  chiefly  of  three  kinds: 
(1)  variations  in  the  number  of  light  or  unstressed 
syllables;  (2)  variations  in  the  weight  of  stressed 
syllables;  (3)  variations  in  the  relative  position 
of  the  stresses. 

1 .  An  extra  unstressed  syllable  is  often  allowed 

*Note  that  "a  verse"  or  "the  verse"  means  technically 
a  single  line.  "Verse"  in  the  collective  sense  stands  for 
all  metrically  arranged  language. 


18  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

in   iambic   and  trochaic   measure,   especially   at 
the  beginning  or  end  of  a  line: 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 
In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony. 

The  wise  want  love  and  those  who  love  want  wisdow 
The  extra  syllables  within  a  line-  are  usually 

such  as  may  be  easily  slurred  over  (-er,  -el,  -en, 

-y,  the  before  a  vowel,  etc.): 


Master  of  the  murmuring  courts. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways. 

So  spake  the  imperial  sage,  purest  of  men. 

'    -^  -^        '        '  ^  -^    -^         '  •  * 

Sweet  fluttering  sheet,  even  of  her  breath  aware. 

Sometimes  an  apostrophe  is  made  to  take  the 
place  of  the  vowel  of  such  syllables,  but  the 
present  tendency  is  rather  against  complete 
elision.  The  syllable  therefore  should  be  pro- 
nounced distinctly,  though  of  course  very  lightly 
and  rapidly. 

A  light  syllable  may  be  omitted  from  three- 
syllable  (anapestic  or  dactylic)  measure: 

A  sensitive  plant  in  a  garden  grew 
A  A 

This  is  sometimes  done  so  freely  as  quite  to 
change  the  character  of  the  verse.  For  example, 


The  Study  of  Poetry  19 

Moore's  Pro  Patria  Mori  and  Wolfe's  The  Burial 
of  Sir  John  Moore  are  both  technically  in  anapestic 
measure,  but  the  second,  with  its  greater  free- 
dom, gives  much  less  the  effect  of  singing  and 
more  the  effect  of  recitation. 

Occasionally,  the  light  syllable  or  syllables  of 
a  foot  are  altogether  omitted,  their  place  being 
supplied  by  a  pause: 

v    —    v    —    v    — 
Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  sea! 

r  t  tt 

Over  bank  and  over  brae, 

'"         *        '      ^   ' 

Hie  away,  hie  away. 

A 

Rarely,  as  many  as  three  light  syllables  are 
allowed  in  a  foot.  If  this  is  done  continuously 
we  get  virtually  a  new  (quadruple)  measure,  the 
feet  of  which  have  never  been  given  a  name  in 
English.  Such  feet,  however,  very  easily  resolve 
themselves  into  trochees  or  iambs: 

r  i  i 

Though  the  bloodhound  be  mute  and  the  rush  beneath, 
my  foot, 

And  the  warder  his  bugle  should  not  blow. 

(Scott's  Eve  of  St.  John.) 

2.  Stresses  are  not  of  uniform  strength.  Some- 
times the  place  of  the  stress  is  occupied  by  a 


20  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

very  weak  syllable.  In  reading,  such  a  syllable 
is  given  the  least  accent  possible — merely  suffi- 
cient to  indicate  the  time-beat: 

r  f  r  •  t  t 

Amid  the  timbrels  and  the  throng'd  resort. 

The  mockery  of  my  people  and  their  bane. 

The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland. 
Iambic  pentameters,  notwithstanding  their  five 
time-beats,  show  on  the  average  only  about  four 
strong  stresses  to  the  line. 

Often  the  unstressed  position  is  occupied  by  a 
heavy  syllable,  which  must  not,  however,  be 
given  the  time-beat  so  long. as  there  is  an  equally 
heavy  syllable  in  the  stressed  position: 

But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all,  I  love. 
3.  The  position   of  stresses  may  occasionally 
be  shifted,   yielding  inverted  feet: 

Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
^      '       _^'\_,        '  '  '  -^       ' 

Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 

The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

Such  inversion  is  most  frequent  at  the  begin- 
ning of  a  line  or  after  a  pause.  It  is  mainly  con- 
fined, too,  to  iambic  verse,  the  other  measures 
— trochaic,  anapestic,  and  dactylic — having  their 
accentual  character  more  strongly  marked. 


The  Study  of  Poetry  21 

Sometimes  the  shifting  of  stresses  is  carried 
so  far  as  to  bring  about  a  kind  of  fusion  of  two 
feet  into  one  long  compound  foot.  The  number 
and  weight  of  stresses  remain  the  same,  but 
the  alternation  is  temporarily  lost: 

^  v_x  '  '  '  '  ' 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning  filled  the  east. 
Raised  higher  the  faint  head  o'er  which  it  hung. 
Here  the  scansion   of  the  italicized  portion  is 
^  ^  j_  j_  instead  of  ^  JL  ^  L- 

Rhyme. — Rhyme  is  a  recurrence  of  the  same 
sound  or  sounds.  According  to  present  English 
practice,  two  words  are  said  to  rhyme  when 
they  are  similar  in  sound  from  the  vowel  of  the 
last  accented  syllable  to  the  close.  It  is  com- 
monly required  that  the  consonants  (or  combi- 
nation of  consonants)  preceding  the  accented 
vowel  be  different.  That  is,  fate,  ate,  rate,  gate, 
etc,,  may  rhyme  with  grate,  but  not  great  with 
grate,  because  of  their  complete  identity;  but 
a  few  poets  have  followed  the  French  custom 
and  allowed  this  identity.  Spelling  has  nothing 
to  do  with  the  matter;  strait  and  straight  are 
both  rhymes  to  either  great  or  grate. 

MASCULINE  RHYME  is  rhyme  of  a  single  syllable: 
go  -  grow;  felled  -  beheld. 

FEMININE  OR  DOUBLE  RHYME  (so  named  be- 
cause of  the  syllabic  addition  to  feminine  words 


22  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

in  French)  is  rhyme  of  two  syllables;  going  - 
growing;  city  -  pity. 

TRIPLE  RHYME  is  also  occasionally  found: 
tenderly  -  slenderly;  bring  to  her  -  spring  to  her. 

Slight  variations  in  the  vowel  sounds  and 
(more  rarely)  in  the  consonant  sounds  are  ad- 
mitted by  most  poets:  love -prove;  Christ -mist; 
prize  -  Paradise. 

WEAK  or  LIGHT  RHYME  occurs  when  one  of  the 
rhyming  syllables  has  only  a  secondary  word- 
accent:  see- futurity;  sped  -  piloted;  spell -desir- 
able. 

Another  musical  device  frequently  employed 
is  ALLITERATION.  This  is  merely  beginning- 
rhyme,  or  similarity  of  sound  at  the  beginning 
of  words  or  syllables:  now -never;  blight -blos- 
som; love  -  relent;  strive  -  restrain.  In  early  Eng- 
lish poetry,  alliteration  was  employed  systemat- 
ically, but  now  it  is  almost  wholly  incidental; 
for  example: 

With  just  enough  of  Zife  to  see 
The  Zast  of  suns  go  down  on  me. 

To  alliteration  may  be  added  ASSONANCE,  or 
similarity  of  sound  (chiefly  vowel)  within  words; 
gray  -  save;  gloaming  -  home.  This  also  is  but 
an  incidental  element.  Yet  these  incidental 
elements  often  add  great  charm  to  verse.  Ob- 
serve, for  example,  how  effectively  the  three 


The  Study  of  Poetry  23 

consonant  sounds  in  the  word  Cupid  are  made 
to  play  through  the  following  lines: 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  play'd 
At  cards  for  kisses;  Cupid  paid 

and  observe  how  extremely  musical  the  follow- 
ing stanza  is  made  by  the  chiming  and  cadence 
of  its  dominant  sounds: 

The  low  downs  lean  to  the  sea;  the  stream. 

One  loose  thin  pulseless  tremulous  vein, 
Rapid  and  vivid  and  dumb  as  a  dream, 

Works  downward,  sick  of  the  sun  and  the  rain. 

Blank  Verse. — Blank  verse  is  verse  without 
rhyme.  It  is  commonly  iambic  pentameter,  as 
in  Shakspere's  dramas  and  Milton's  Paradise 
Lost.  In  this  verse  there  are  no  metrical  units 
greater  than  the  line;  beyond  that  the  verse 
simply  moves  in  rhythmical  masses  and  falls  into 
paragraphs  like  those  of  prose: 

"Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  clime." 
Said  then  the  lost  Archangel,  "this  the  seat 
That  we  must  change  for  Heaven? — this  mournful  gloom 
For  that  celestial  light?  Be  it  so,  since  He 

Who  now  is  sovran  can  dispose  and  bid 
What  shall  be  right;  farthest  from  him  is  best, 
Whom  »-eason  hath  equalled,  force  hath  made  supreme 
Above  his  equals.  Farewell,  happy  fields. 

Where  joy  forever  dwells!     Hail,  horrors!  hail, 
Infernal  World!  and  thou,  profoundest  Hell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor — one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time. 

The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  Heaven  of  Hell,  a  Hell  of  Heaven." 


24  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

Another  familiar  form  of  blank  verse  -is  the 
DACTYLIC  HEXAMETER,  which  is  modelled  upon 
the  Greek  and  Latin  hexameter,  with  very 
definite  rules  of  its  own.  Among  these  rules  are 
the  requirement  that  the  sixth  or  last  foot  shall 
always  be  a  trochee;  that  a  two-syllable  foot 
(properly  a  spondee,  but  often  a  trochee)  may 
be  substituted  for  the  dactyl  of  any  foot  but  the 
fifth;  and  that  the  chief  rhetorical  pause  within 
the  line,  technically  known  as  the  CAESURA, 
shall  not  come  at  the  end  of  a  foot: 

Awed  by  her  own  rash  words  she  was  still:   ||  and  her 

eyes  to  the  seawardA 

Looked  for  an  answer  of  wrath:  far  off,  in  the  heart  of 
the  darkness, 

Bright  white  mists  rose  slowly;  beneath  them  the  wander- 
ing ocean 

Glimmered  and  glowed  td  the  deepest  abyss;  and  the 
knees  of  the  maiden 

Trembled  and  sank  in  her  fear,  as  afar,  like  a  dawn  in  the 
midnight, 

Rose  from  their  seaweed  chamber  the  choir  of  the  mys- 
tical sea-maids. 

Couplets. — The  simplest  use  of  rhyme  is  shown 
in  the  COUPLET — twro  successive  rhyming  lines. 
This,  like  blank  verse,  is  most  frequently  iambic 
pentameter.  Two  kinds  of  pentameter  couplets 
may  be  distinguished,  the  classic  and  the  roman- 
tic. In  the  former  there  is  a  marked  pause  at 


The  Study  of  Poetry  25 

the  end,  each  couplet  constituting  a  pretty  dis- 
tinct rhetorical  unit,  with  internal  balance  nicely 
adjusted;  as  in  the  following  example  from  Pope's 
Rape  of  the  Lock: 

But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides, 
The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating  tides; 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  soften'd  sounds  along  the  waters  die; 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently  play, 
Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 

In  the  romantic  couplet  there  are  many  "run- 
on"  lines,  the  pauses  occurring  at  any  point, 
with  frequently  a  full  stop  in  the  middle  of  a 
line.  The  opening  lines  of  Keats's  Endymion 
afford  a  good  illustration: 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever: 

Its  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing. 

In  either  case  these  couplets  are  printed  con- 
tinuously, .like  blank  verse,  with  large  irregular 
paragraph  divisions. 

Stanza  Forms. — Rhyme  is  not  only  a  musical 
addition  to  verse,  but  it  serves  also  to  bind  the 
lines  into  the  larger  poetic  units  known  as  stanzas. 
Sometimes  stanzas  are  constructed  without 
rhymes,  as  in  Collins's  ode  To  Evening,  but  this 


26  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

is  rare.  The  briefest  stanza  consists  of  two 
lines.  Couplets,  as  denned  above,  are  not 
stanzas.  But  when  printed  separately,  they 
constitute  stanzas  to  which  perhaps  the  name 
of  DISTICHS  may  be  given.  An  example  is 
Whittier's  Maud  Mutter.  Specimens  may  be 
found  also  of  three-line  stanzas,  with  triple 
rhyme.  Above  this  we  reach  the  forms  of  the 
more  common  stanzas,  and  the  possible  combi- 
nations become  obviously  very  numerous.  We 
shall  indicate  only  the  more  frequent  and  char- 
acteristic combinations,  some  of  which  have 
distinctive  names. 

A  QUATRAIN  consists  of  four  lines,  usually 
with  alternate  rhyme,  a,  b,  a,  b: 

I  see  the  rainbow  in  the  sky, 

The  dew  upon  the  grass, 
I  see  them,  and  I  ask  not  why 

They  glimmer  or  they  pass. 

An  important  variation  is  that  employed  by 
Tennyson  in  In  Memoriam,  with  an  enclosed 
couplet,  thus:  a,  b,  b,  a.  The  lines  are  tetram- 
eter: 

I  sing  to  him  that  rests  below, 

And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

Another  variation  is  the  oriental  quatrain  of 


The  Study  of  Poetry  27 

Fitzgerald's  Rubaiyat:    a,  a,  b,  a.     The  lines  of 
this  are  pentameter: 

Awake!  for  morning  in  the  bowl  of  night 

Has  flung  the  stone  that  put  the  stars  to  flight: 

And  lo!  the  hunter  of  the  east  has  caught 
The  sultan's  turret  in  a  noose  of  light. 

RHYME-ROYAL  is  a  seven-line  pentameter 
stanza,  a,  b,  a,  b,  b,  c,  c.  It  was  much  used  in 
Chaucer's  time.  An  example  may  be  found  in 
the  familiar  Prelude  of  William  Morris's  Earthly 
Paradise: 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 

Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your  tears, 

Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 

The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

OTTAVA  RIMA  is  an  eight-line  pentameter 
stanza,  a,  b,  a,  b,  a,  b,  c,  c.  The  stanza  and  the 
name  were  borrowed  from  the  Italian.  Byron's 
Don  Juan  will  furnish  an  example: 

And  first  one  universal  shriek  there  rushed 
Louder  than  the  loud  ocean,  like  a  crash 

Of  echoing  thunder;  and  then  all  was  hushed, 
Save  the  wild  wind  and  the  remorseless  dash 

Of  billows;  but  at  intervals  there  gushed, 
Accompanied  with  a  convulsive  splash, 

A  solitary  shriek,  the  bubbling  cry 

Of  some  strong  swimmer  in  his  agony. 


28  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

Another  Italian'  form,  not  really  stanzaic,  is 
the  terza  rima,  consisting  of  sets  of  triple  rhymes 
interlocked,  a,  b,  a,  b,  c,  b,  c,  d,  c,  d,  e,  d,  etc. 
See  Shelley's  Ode  to  the  West  Wind. 

The  SPENSERIAN  STANZA,  invented  by  Spenser 
for  his  Faerie  Queene,  consists  of  nine  lines — 
eight-  iambic  pentameter  and  the  ninth  an 
Alexandrine— rhyming  a,  b,  a,  b,  b,  c,  b,  c,  c. 
The  example  following  is  from  Spenser,  but 
the  stanza  may  be  seen  also. in  Byron's  Childe 
Harold,  Keats's  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  and  various 
poems  of  Shelley's,  such  as  the  Stanzas  Written 
in  Dejection  near  Naples: 

One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way, 
From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight, 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow,  far  from  all  men's  sight: 
From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight, 
And  laid  her  stole  aside.     Her  angel's  face, 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shined  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place; 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 

The  Sonnet. — The  sonnet  is  a  complete  poem 
of  fourteen  iambic  pentameter  lines.  In  the 
strict  Italian  or  Petrarchan  form  it  is  divided 
formally,  and  usually  also  logically,  into  an 
octave  and  a  sestet.  The  octave  contains  but 
two  rhymes,  in  the  order  a,  b,  b,  a,  a,  b,  b,  a. 
The  sestet  may  contain  either  two  or  three 


The  Study  of  Poetry  29 

rhymes  arranged  in  any  interlinked  order — 
c,  d,  c,  d,  c,  d;  c,  c,  d,  c,  c,  d;  c,  d,  e,  c,  d,  e;  c,  d, 
e,  d,  c,  e,  etc.  The  following  example  is  from 
Wordsworth : 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

The  Shaksperian  sonnet  is  arranged  in  three 
quatrains  and  a  couplet:  a,  b,  a,  b,  c,  d,  c,  d, 
e-  f,  e,  f,  g,  g: 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold, 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sun-set  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest: 
In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  death-bed  whereon 'it  must  expire, 
Consum'd  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 
This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 


30  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

The  Ode. — The  ode  is  usually  composed  of 
lines  of  varying  length,  and  divided  into  stanzas, 
or  strophes.  In  the  so-called  "Pindaric"  ode 
of  Cowley  and  his  imitators,  these  strophes  are 
entirely  irregular  in  length  and  form.  See  Dry- 
den's  Alexander's  Feast  for  an  example. 

In  the  Pindaric  ode  proper,  the  stanzas  are 
arranged  in  triads  of  strophe,  antistrophe,  and 
epode,  and  these  correspond  throughout.  That 
is,  some  arrangement  of  lines  and  rhymes  is 
selected  for  the  strophe  and  preserved  through 
all  the  succeeding  strophes  and  antistrophes, 
with  a  different  arrangement  for  the  epode, 
which  is  likewise  preserved  through  the  follow- 
ing epodes.  See  Gray's  The  Bard. 

Many  simpler  arrangements  of  more  or  less 
regular  stanzas  are  also  called  odes,  such  as  the 
familiar  odes  of  Shelley  and  Keats. 

French  Forms. — In  recent  years  there  has 
been  a  revival  of  numerous  old  French  forms  of 
verse,  such  as  the  BALLADE,  the  RONDEAU,  the 
TRIOLET,  etc.  Many  of  them  are  extremely 
elaborate  and  artificial,  making  much  use  of 
the  element  of  refrain.  They  are  of  value  chiefly 
as  exercises  of  the  fancy  and  of  technical  skill. 
Seldom  is  poetry  of  the  first  order  composed  in 
them  and  they  call  for  no  extended  description 
here. 


The  Study  of  Poetry  31 

KINDS  OF  POETRY 

Poetry  may  be  divided  into  three  large  classes, 
Epic,  Lyric,  and  Dramatic,  with  numerous 
minor  classes  subdividing  and  to  some  extent 
overlapping  these. 

Epic  Poetry. — Epic  poetry  was  originally  the 
poetry  of  recital  or  of  rude  chant.  It  is  objec- 
tive; that  is,  it  deals  with  external  events  and 
seldom  expresses  the  feelings  of  the  poet.  It  is 
mainly  narrative,  usually  of  great  length,  and 
in  its  earlier  examples  treats  of  the  deeds  and 
prowess  of  some  hero  or  tribe.  A  distinction 
may  be  made  between  the  early  FOLK-EPIC,  or 
hero-saga,  and  its  later  developments  or  imita- 
tions. The  former  is  comparatively  simple  and 
of  obscure  origin,  being  sometimes  a  product  of 
slow  growth  and  the  work  of  various  bards. 
Such  are  the  Iliad,  the  Nibelungenlied,  and 
Beowulf.  The  character  of  the  folk-epic  can- 
not of  course  be  adequately  shown  in  an  extract, 
but  possibly  something  of  its  spirit  and  general 
manner  may  be  thus  conveyed.  The  following 
is  from  our  Old  English  epic,  the  alliterative 
poem  of  three  thousand  lines  which  recounts 
the  deeds  of  the  Teutonic  hero  Beowulf,  who 
delivered  the  country  of  the  Danes  from  a 
dragon : 


32  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

Then  he  saw  mid  the  war-gems  a  weapon  of  victory, 

An  ancient  giant-sword,  of  edges  a-doughty, 

Glory  of  warriors:  of  weapons  'twas  choicest, 

Only  'twas  larger  than  any  man  else  was 

Able  to  bear  to  the  battle-encounter, 

The  good  and  splendid  work  of  the  giants. 

He  grasped  then  the  sword-hilt,  brandished  his  ring-sword; 

Hopeless  of  living,  hotly  he  smote  her, 

That  the  fiend-woman's  neck  firmly  it  grappled, 

Broke  through  her  bone-joints,  the  bill  fully  pierced  her 

Fate-cursed  body,  she  fell  to  the  ground  then: 

The  hand-sword  was  bloody,  the  hero  exulted. 

(J.  £.  Hall's  Translation.) 

The  ART-EPIC  arises  at  a  stage  of  higher  devel- 
opment, and  is  invariably  the  work  of  a  single 
poet  who  elaborates  his  story  writh  all  the  devices 
of  a  perfected  art.  The  best  type  of  this  is  the 
great  Roman  epic  of  the  Aeneid.  Though  Virgil 
professedly  followed  Homer,  writing  a  heroic 
poem  and  employing  indeed  some  of  the  same 
legends,  the  difference  of  treatment  may  be  felt 
in  almost  every  line.  The  primitive  character 
is  gone;  the  later  poet  is  manifestly  far  removed 
from  the  events  which  he  describes,  and  literary 
embellishment  is  more  constantly  added  to  direct 
narration.  The  following  lines  describe  Aeneas's 
departure  from  Carthage,  on  his  way  to  found 
Rome,  at  the  bidding  of  a  messenger  from 
heaven : 

Now  at  the  last,  Troy's  chief,  by  the  sudden  vision  appalled, 
Started  from  slumber,  and  loudly  his  sleeping  mariners 
called: 


The  Study  of  Poetry  33. 

"Gallants!  waken  in  haste!     Each  man  to  his  bench  and 
his  oar! 

Hoist  all  sails  with  a  will!     From  the  heavenly  heights 
as  before, 

Comes  an  immortal  God,  sent  down  with  a  mighty  com- 
mand 

Straight  to  depart,  and  to  sever  the  twisted  cables  from 
land. 

Holiest  one!  we  obey  thee,  whatever  thy  title  on  high; 

Lo!  with  rejoicing  hearts  to  perform  thy  bidding  we  fly. 

Be  thou  graciously  near  us,  and  make  yon  stars  of  the  sky 

Herald  us  weather  fair."     As  he  spake,  from  the  scab- 
bard his  sword 

Flamed  as  the  lightning  flashes,  and  sundered  swiftly  the- 
cord. 

All  are  aglow,  heave  gaily  amain,  haste  gladly  to  do. 

Land  in  the  distance  fades,  sails  cover  the  seas,  and  the 
crew 

Labor  the  foaming  waters,  and  cleave  bright  billows  of 
blue. 

(Bowen's  Translation.} 

Sometimes  the  later  poet  attempts  to  imitate 
the  simplicity  of  the  more  primitive  epic,  as. 
Matthew  Arnold  has  done  in  Sohrab  and  Rustum. 
On  the  other  hand  the  modern  epic  poet  may 
quite  depart  from  the  subjects  and  methods  of 
the  early  bards,  and  produce  a  great  historical, 
allegorical,  or  religious  epic,  like  Camoen's- 
Lusiad,  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene,  or  Milton's 
Paradise  Lost. 

The  FOLK-BALLAD,  though  much  briefer  and 
partaking  of  a  lyric  character,  remains  essentially 
objective  and  must  be  regarded  as  a  variety  of 
epic  poetry.  There  are  numerous  English  ballads- 


34  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

of  unknown  origin,  like  Robin  Hood  or  the  Battle 
of  Otterburn,  and  also  numerous  later  ones, 
especially  since  the  time  of  Scott,  composed  in 
more  or  less  close  imitation  of  them.  The  char- 
acter of  the  rude,  anonymous  ballad  is  well 
illustrated  by  the  opening  stanzas  of  Sir  Patrick 
Spence: 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  toune, 

Drinking  the  blude-reid  wine: 
"O  whar  will  I  get  guid  sailor, 

To  sail  this  schip-of  mine?" 

Up  and  spak  an  eldern  knicht, 

Sat  at  the  king's  richt  kne: 
"Sir  Patrick  Spence  is  the  best  sailor, 

That  sails  upon  the  se." 

The  METRICAL  TALE  is  another  important 
variety  of  the  epic.  It  is  usually  highly  romantic, 
deriving  its  themes  from  deeds  of  chivalry,  from 
oriental  manners,  and  the  like.  Such  are  Scott's 
longer  poems,  Byron's  The  Bride  of  Abydos,  etc. 
Sometimes  the  metrical  tale  is  quite  modern  in 
setting  and  spirit,  as  in  Tennyson's  English 
Idyls. 

Lyric  Poetry. — Lyric  poetry  is  the  poetry  of 
song,  though  now  seldom  actually  meant  to  be 
sung.  It  is  more  or  less  subjective — that  is,  it 
springs  from  and  expresses  the  feelings  of  the 
poet,  and  appeals  less  to  the  love  of  incident  than 


The  Study  of  Poetry  35 

to  the  emotional  and  SBsthetic  sensibilities  of  the 
reader.  It  includes  nearly  all  short  poems  and 
many  of  considerable  length — the  great  bulk, 
indeed,  of  modern  verse — and  the  sources  of  its 
inspiration  cover  the  entire  range  of  human  feel- 
ing, from  the  religious  worshiper's  hymn  or  the 
mother's  tender  lullaby  over  her  sleeping  infant 
to  the  warrior's  fierce  cry  of  battle  and  victory. 
Examples  rise  in  perplexing  number: 

Take,  O  take  those  lips  away 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn, 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn; 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again — 

Seals  of  love,  but  seal'd  in  vain, 
Seal'd  in  vain! 

— Shakspere. 
Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven  or  near  it 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

— Shelley. 
Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me; 

While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

— Tennyson. 

Under  the  general  head  of  lyric  poetry  must 
be  included  a  number  of  more  or  less  specialized 


36  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

varieties,  such  as  ELEGIES,  or  mourning  poems, 
•of  which  Milton's  Lycidas  is  the  great  English 
^example;  EPITHALAMIA,  or  marriage  hymns, 
like  Spenser's  Epithalamion;  and.  ODES  and 
•SONNETS,  both  of  which  have  been  more  fully 
-described'  in  the  preceding  section  on  Poetic 
Form. 

Dramatic  Poetry. — This  is  the  poetry  of  en- 
acted life.  In  it  the  poet  drops  the  role  of 
narrator  or  interpreter  and  simply  presents 
his  characters,  allowing  them  to  speak  and 
.act  for  themselves.  Sometimes  poetic  drama 
is  written  only  to  be  read,  when  we  give  it  the 
name  of  "closet-drama,"  but  in  the  greatest 
period  of  the  English'  drama,  the  time  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  it  was  invariably  intended  for  actual 
representation  on  the  stage  and  the  productions 
were  called  simply  "plays."  Plays  are  com- 
monly classified  as  either  TRAGEDIES  or  COM- 
EDIES. A  tragedy  is  solemn  and  lofty  in  char- 
acter, usually  portraying  the  struggle  of  an 
individual  against  fate,  and  moving  to  a  fatal 
issue.  Hamlet  and  Macbeth  are  familiar  examples. 
•Comedy,  on  the  other  hand,  presents  a  more  or 
less,  amusing  plot  with  a  happy  ending.  Usually 
only  the  higher  class  of  romantic  comedies,  such 
as  The  Merchant  of  Venice  and  As  You  Like  It, 
are  cast  in  poetic  form;  when  comedy  descends 


The  Study  of  Poetry  37 

toward  the   level    of   farce,    its   natural    vehicle 
is  prose. 

To  all  these  varieties  of  poetry — epic,  lyric, 
and  dramatic, — may  be  added  some  others  not 
easily  classifiable,  such  as  PASTORALS,  SATIRES, 
EPIGRAMS,  and  the  great  body  of  reflective  and 
didactic  verse. 

READING  AND  INTERPRETATION 

There  are  obviously  several  kinds  of  enjoy- 
ment to  be  derived  from  poetry.  The  first  is 
the  simple,  immediate  sense  of  something  beau- 
tiful or  moving — the  enjoyment  which  the  poet 
meant  to  give,  and  the  only  enjoyment  which 
the  unschooled  and  perhaps  even  the  average 
hearer  or  reader  ever  gets.  Nothing  should  be 
allowed  to  obscure  or  diminish  this  enjoyment, 
and  the  advice  given  by  Dr.  Johnson  in  the 
preface  to  his  edition  of  Shakspere  in  the  year 
1765  is  well  worth  dwelling  on: 

"Notes  are  often  necessary,  but  they  are  necessary 
evils.  Let  him  that  is  yet  unacquainted  with  the  powers 
of  Shakespeare,  and  who  desires  to  feel  the  highest  pleas- 
sure  that  the  drama  can  give,  read  every  play,  from  the 
first  scene  to  the  last,  with  utter  negligence  of  all  his 
commentators.  When  his  fancy  is  once  on  the  wing,  let  it 
not  stoop  at  correction  or  explanation.  When  his  atten- 
tion is  strongly  engaged,  let  it  disdain  alike  to  turn  aside 
to  the  name  of  Theobald  and  of  Pope.  Let  him  read  en 
through  brightness  and  obscurity,  through  integrity  and 


38  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

corruption;  let  him  preserve  his  comprehension  of  the 
dialogue  and  his  interest  in  the  fable.  And  when  the 
pleasures  of  novelty  have  ceased,  let  him  attempt  exact- 
ness, and  read  the  commentators." 

It  is  a  cardinal  principle  in  the  interpretation 
of  poetry  that  to  feel  is  better  than  to  know,  or 
rather  that,  except  possibly  in  the  severest 
orders  of  didactic  verse,  feeling  is  the  only  true 
knowledge.  .To  know  without  feeling  is  after 
all  not  to  understand;  none  but  he  who  follows 
Jiis  poet  with  lively  sympathy,  with  kindled 
imagination,  with  sharpened  sensibility  to  all 
beauty  and  power,  can  have  any  true  or  vital 
knowledge  of  him. 

Poetry,  then,  should  first  of  all  be  read,  earn- 
estly read, — neither  studied  on  the  one  hand, 
nor  skimmed  on  the  other.  It  should  be  read 
aloud,  if  possible,  both  that  the  reading  may  be 
done  with  care,  and  that  the  ear  may  get  in 
reality,  and  not  through  imagination  only,  the 
melodies  and  harmonies  of  the  verse.  So  organic 
are  these  musical  elements  in  all  good  poetry, 
so  intimately  connected  with  the  poet's  thought 
and  feeling,  that  the  only  road  to  complete 
sympathy  with  him  lies  through  them.  If  the 
reader's  metrical  sense  is  defective  or  untrained, 
he  must  confine  himself  at  first  to  the  simpler 
and  more  marked  rhythms,  gradually  perfect- 
ing his  education  in  this  particular  in  the  only 


The  Study  of  Poetry  39 

possible  way,  namely,  by  reading  more  and 
more  verse.  In  time  he  will  find,  if  he  have 
any  faculty  for  rhythm  at  all,  that  the  freest 
of  meters  will  give  him  little  trouble  and  he 
will  instinctively  make  the  nicest  necessary 
adjustments  between  rhetorical  sense  and  metri- 
cal law.  The  teacher  of  poetry  can  devise  no 
more  profitable  exercise  than  daily  to  read  or 
have  read  a  short  selection  of  verse  without 
comment  or  criticism,  depending  on  the  inherent 
power  of  the  verse  to  command  both  interest 
and  appreciation. 

Understanding  is  of  course  also  necessary. 
For  however  strong  may  be  the  appeal  of  poetry 
to  the  senses,  its  language  is  the  language  of 
reason,  and  it  has  always  a  pure  intellectual 
basis  that  cannot  be  ignored.  One  should  not 
rest  content  until  the  words  and  sentences 
of  a  poem  convey  to  him  definite  and  accurate 
ideas.  Therefore  it  may  sometimes  be  necessary 
to  paraphrase.  For  instance,  readers  who  are 
unfamiliar  with  the  Scotch  dialect  and  with  the 
less  usual  forms  of  our  subjunctive  construction 
may  require  to  have  Burns's  lines, 

"O  wad  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us,"  etc., 

turned  into  "If  some  power  would  but  give  us 
the  gift,"  etc.  But  if  we  stop  there,  the  poetry 


40  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

is  destroyed.  When,  the  significance  is  grasped 
we  must  forget  our  paraphrase  and  revert  to 
the  poet's  language.  Indeed,  any  needless  trans- 
lation of  the  poet's  ideas  and  images  into  other 
words  is  to  be  sedulously  avoided,  since  it  carries 
with  it  the  danger  of  irrecoverable  loss.  In  a 
well  known  essay  Matthew  Arnold  has  declared 
that  he  would  rather  have  a  young  person 
ignorant  of  the  moon's  diameter  than  have  him 
think  that  a  good  paraphrase  for  Macbeth's 
query, 

"Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased?" 

would  be  "Can  you  not  wait  upon  the  lunatic?" 
— and  lovers  of  Shakspere  find  it  not  a  little 
hard  to  forgive  Arnold  for  having  made  current 
such  a  paraphrase  even  for  the  sake  of  impress- 
ing a  wholesome  lesson. 

In  the  more  abstruse  kinds  of  poetry,  con- 
scious analysis  and  interpretation  must  doubt- 
less be  resorted  to. freely.  Some  poetry  of  this 
class  exists  chiefly  for  the  message  or  moral  it 
conveys.  Close  study  of  it  is  therefore  not  only 
legitimate,  but  is  demanded,  and  it  may  be 
pursued  with  little  harm  to  the  more  purely 
poetic  enjoyment,  since  that  becomes  then  a 
minor  consideration.  Moreover,  our  skill  in 
interpreting  will  grow  with  our  practice  until 


The  Study  of  Poetry  41 

even  difficult  poetry  becomes  simple  to  us  and 
there  is  no  longer  any  perceptible  bar  to  the 
appreciation  of  both  its  truth  and  its  beauty. 
When  .we  have  reached  that  stage,  Shakspere 
and  Dante  will  not  only  yield  delight  as  readily 
as  Bums  and  Tennyson  did  once,  but  the  delight 
will  be  greater  in  proportion  to  the  greater  ideas 
and  truths  that  accompany  the  poet's  imagina- 
tion and  feeling. 

A  further  pleasure  to  be  derived  from  poetry 
may  lie  in  the  discovery  of  the  sources  of 
our  primary  enjoyment.  This  may  be  made 
clearest,  perhaps,  by  an  illustration.  Tennyson's 
Mariana  is  a  poem  that  requires  no  mterpreta- 
tion.  One  may  read  simply  for  the  obvious 
beauty  and  feeling  in  them,  such  lines  as, 

"About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 
The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept." 

But,  if  he  choose,  he  may  return  upon  his  read- 
ing and  trace  the  pleasurable  effects  to  their 
source.  He  will  then  discover  that  there  is 
music  for  the  ear  in  the  rich  rhymes  and  the 
alliterated  syllables,  that  there  is  pleasure  in 
meeting  with  such  words  as  "  sluice  "  and  "  marish  " 
in  poetic  surroundings,  that  a  subtle  harmony 
is  to  be  detected  bet\veen  Mariana's  depression 


42  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

of  spirit  and  the  blackened,  sleeping  waters  that 
she  looks  upon,  that  the  sense  of  sullen  life  and 
purposed  action  on  the  part  of  the  waters,  im- 
plied in  the  word  "  slept,"  imparts  an  atmosphere 
of  mystery  and  awe,  that  in  the  whole  poem, 
indeed,  though  the  words  "monotony"  and 
"melancholy"  are  nowhere  used,  every  thought 
and  image  contributes  to  produce  a  monotonous, 
melancholy  effect.  Many  will  protest  against 
such  analysis,  as  destroying  the  charm  of  poetry. 
To  those  who  find  it  disenchanting,  the  simple 
advice  is  to  let  it  alone.  To  all  should  be  given 
a  caution  against  pushing  it  too  far,  for  it  is 
precisely  this  kind  of  treatment  that  if  over  done 
will  deaden  literature  instead  of  making  it  alive. 
Yet  a  certain  amount  of  conscious  study,  pur- 
sued with  reverence  and  sympathy,  can  scarcely 
result  in  harm. 

After  all,  to  increase  in  every  way  possible  our 
enjoyment  of  "the  best  that  has  been  thought 
and  said  in  the  world"  is  the  great  object.  Per- 
haps each  one  primarily  demands  of  the  poet  his 
own  best  thoughts  and  dreams  given  such  expres- 
sion as  he  himself  is  unable  to  give  them.  He 
goes  to  the  poet,  as  it  were,  saying:  "I  have 
seen,  in  fact  or  in  fancy,  such  and  such  things; 
I  have  felt  thus  and  so.  But  if  I  tried  to  express 
it,  I  should  not  do  myself  justice.  My  words 


The  Studij  of  Poetry  43 

are  poor,  and  I  have  no  skill  to  shape  them 
aright.  Do  you  do  it  for  me."  And  to  one  who 
looks  out  upon  nature,  filled  with  the  palpi- 
tating joy  of  life,  a  Tennyson  interprets  the 
throstle's  song: 

"  'Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming, 

I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know  it, 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again,  love  again,' 
Yes,  my  wild  little  poet;" 

and  to  one  oppressed  with  sorrow  a  Longfellow 
tells  how 

"Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary." 

Thus,  the  needed  expression  is  supplied,  and 
the  pent-up  feelings  find  an  outlet. 

Yet  something  more  than  this  is  possible. 
The  great  poets  have  visions  that  we  have  not 
seen,  thoughts  that  never  crossed  our  brain. 
To  follow  and  find  these,  to  come  into  touch 
with  Wordsworth's  subtle  sympathies,  to  rise 
to  the  sublimity  of  Milton's  lofty  conceptions, 
to  sound  the  depths  of  Shakspere's  knowledge 
of  the  human  soul,  are  things  that  wait  only 
upon  the  constant  reading  and  study  of  poetry. 
For  the  attainment  of  these,  can  any  sacrifice 
of  time  or  labor  seem  too  great? 

ALPHONSO  GERALD  NEWCOMER. 


TO 

ALFRED  TENNYSON 

POET    LAUREATE 

THIS  book  in  its  progress  has  recalled  often  to  my  memory 
a  man  with  whose  friendship  we  were  once  honoured, 
to  whom  no  region  of  English  Literature  was  unfamiliar, 
and  who,  whilst  rich  in  all  the  noble  gifts  of  Nature,  was 
most  eminently  distinguished  by  the  noblest  and  the 
rarest,— just  judgment  and  high-hearted  patriotism.  It 
would  have  been  hence  a  peculiar  pleasure  and  pride  to 
dedicate  what  I  have  endeavoured  to  make  a  true  national 
Anthology  of  three  centuries  to  Henry  Hallam.  But  he 
is  beyond  the  reach  of  any  human  tokens  of  love  and 
reverence;  and  I  desire  therefore  to  place  before  it  a 
name  united  with  his  by  associations  which,  while  Poetry 
retains  her  hold  on  the  minds  of  Englishmen,  are  not 
likely  to  be  forgotten. 

Your  encouragement,  given  while  traversing  the  wild 
scenery  of  Treryn  Dinas,  led  me  to  begin  the  work;  and 
it  has  been  completed  under  your  advice  and  assistance. 
For  the  favour  now  asked  I  have  thus  a  second  reason: 
and  to  this  I  may  add,  the  homage  which  is  your  right 
as  Poet,  and  the  gratitude  due  to  a  Friend,  whose  regard 
I  rate  at  no  common  value. 
45 


Permit  me  then  to  inscribe  to  yourself  a  book  which, 
1  hope,  may  be  found  by  many  a  lifelong  fountain  of 
innocent  and  exalted  pleasure;  a  source  of  animation  to 
friends  when  they  meet;  and  able  to  sweeten  solitude 
itself  with  best  society, — with  the  companionship  of 
the  wise  and  the  good,  with  the  beauty  which  the  eye 
cannot  see,  and  the  music  only  heard  in  silence.  If 
this  Collection  proves  a  storehouse  of  delight  to  Labour 
and  to  Poverty, — if  it  teaches  those  indifferent  to  the 
Poets  to  love  them,  and  those  who  love  them  to  love 
them  more,  the  aim  and  the  desire  entertained  in  framing 
it  will  be  fully  accomplished. 

F.T.P. 

MAY:  1861 


46 


PREFACE 

THIS  little  Collection  differs,  it  is  believed,  from  others  in 
the  attempt  made  to  include  in  it  all  the  best  original 
Lyrical  pieces  and  Songs  in  our  language  (save  a  very  few 
regretfully  omitted  on  account  of  length),  by  writers  not 
living, — and  none  beside  the  best.  Many  familiar  verses 
will  hence  be  met  with;  many  also  which  should  be  familiar: 
—the  Editor  will  regard  as  his  fittest  readers  those  who 
love  Poetry  so  well,  that  he  can  offer  them  notliing  not 
already  known  and  valued. 

The  Editor  is  acquainted  with  no  strict  and  exhaustive 
definition  of  Lyrical  Poetry;  but  he  has  found  the  task  of 
practical  decision  increase  in  clearness  and  in  facility  as 
he  advanced  with  the  work,  whilst  keeping  in  view  a  few 
simple  principles.  Lyrical  has  been  here  held  essentially 
to  imply  that  each  Poem  shall  turn  on  some  single  thought, 
feeling,  or  situation.  In  accordance  with  this,  narrative, 
descriptive,  and  didactic  poems, — unless  accompanied  by 
rapidity  of  movement,  brevity,  and  the  colouring  of  human 
passion,- — have  been  excluded.  Humourous  poetry,  ex- 
cept in  the  very  unfrequent  instances  where  a  truly 
poetical  tone  pervades  the  whole,  with  whSt  is  strictly 
personal,  occasional,  and  religious,  has  been  considered 
foreign  to  the  idea  of  the  book.  Blank  verse  and  the  ten- 
syllable  couplet,  with  all  pieces  markedly  dramatic,  have 
been  rejected  as  alien  from  what  is  commonly  understood 
by  Song,  and  rarely  conforming  to  Lyrical  conditions  in 
treatment.  But  it  is  not  anticipated,  nor  is  it  possible, 
that  all  readers  shall  think  the  line  accurately  drawn. 
Some  poems,  as  Gray's  Elegy,  the  Allegro  and  Penseroso, 
Wordsworth's  Ruth  or  Campbell's  Lord  Ullin,  might  be 
claimed  with  perhaps  equal  justice  for  a  narrative  or 
descriptive  selection:  whilst  with  reference  especially  to 
Ballads  and  Sonnets,  the  Editor  can  only  state  that  he 
has  taken  his  utmost  pains  to  decide  without  caprice  or 
partiality. 

47 


48  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

This  also  is  all  he  can  plead  in  regard  to  a  point  even 
more  liable  to  question; — what  degree  of  merit  should 
give  rank  among  the  Best.  That  a  poem  shall  be  worthy 
of  the  writer's  genius, — that  it  shaft  reach  a  perfection 
commensurate  with  its  aim, — that  we  should  require 
finish  in  proportion  to  brevity, — that  passion,  colour,  and 
originality  cannot  atone  for  serious  imperfections  in  clear- 
ness, unity  or  truth, — that  a  few  good  lines  do  not  make 
a  good  poem,  that  popular  estimate  is  serviceable  as  a 
guidepost  more  than  as  a  compass, — above  all,  that  excel- 
lence should  be  looked  for  rather  in  the  whole  than  in  the 
parts, — such  and  other  such  canons  have  been  always 
steadily  regarded.  He  may  however  add  that  the  pieces 
chosen,  and  a  far  larger  number  rejected,  have  been  care- 
fully and  repeatedly  considered;  and  that  he  has  been 
aided  throughout  by  two  friends  of  independent  and 
exercised  judgment,  besides  the  distinguished  person 
addressed  in  the  Dedication.  It  is  hoped  that  by  this 
procedure  the  volume  has  been  freed  from  that  one-sided- 
ness  which  must  beset  individual  decisions: — but  for  the 
final  choice  the  Editor  is  alone  responsible. 

Chalmer's  vast  collection,  with  the  whole  works  of  all 
accessible  poets  not  contained  in  it,  and  the  best  Anthol- 
ogies of  different  periods,  have  been  twice  systematically 
read  through:  and  it  is  hence  improbable  that  any  omis- 
sions which  may  be  regretted  are  due  to  oversight.  The 
poems  are  printed  entire,  except  in  a  very  few  instances 
where  a  stanza  or  passage  has  been  omitted.  These 
omissions  have  been  risked  only  when  the  piece  could  be 
thus  brought  to  a  closer  lyrical  unity:  and,  as  essentially 
opposed  to  this  unity,  extracts,  obviously  such,  are 
excluded.  In  regard  to  the  text,  the  purpose  of  the  book 
has  appeared  to  justify  the  choice  of  the  most  poetical 
version,  wherever  more  than  one  exists;  and  much  labour 
has  been  given  to  present  each  poem,  in  disposition,  spell- 
ing, and  punctuation,  to  the  greatest  advantage. 

In  the  arrangement,  the  most  poetically-effective  order 
has  been  attempted.  The  English  mind  has  passed 
through  phases  of  thought  and  cultivation  so  various  and 
so  opposed  during  these  three  centuries  of  Poetry,  that  a 
rapid  passage  between  old  and  new,  like  rapid  alteration, 
of  the  eye's  focus  in  looking  at  the  landscape,  will  always 


Preface  49 

be  wearisome  and  hurtful  to  the  sense  of  Beauty.  The 
poems  have  been  therefore  distributed  into  Books  corres- 
ponding, I  to  the  ninety  years  closing  about  1616,  II  thence 
to  1700,  III  to  1800,  IV  to  the  half  century  just  ended. 
Or,  looking  at  the  Poets  who  more  or  less  give  each  portion 
its  distinctive  character,  they  might  be  called  the  Books 
of  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Gray,  and  Wordsworth.  The 
volume,  in  this  respect,  so  far  as  the  limitations  of  its 
range  allow,  accurately  reflects  the  natural  growth  and 
evolution  of  our  Poetry.  A  rigidly  chronological  sequence, 
however,  rather  fits  a  collection  aiming  at  instruction  than 
at  pleasure,  and  the  wisdom  which  comes  through  pleasure: 
- — within  each  book  the  pieces  have  therefore  been  arranged 
in  gradations  of  feeling  or  subject.  And  it  is  hoped  that 
the  contents  of  this  Anthology  will  thus  be  found  to  pre- 
sent a  certain  unity,  'as  episodes/  in  the  noble  language 
of  Shelley,  'to  that  great  Poem  which  all  poets,  like  the 
co-operating  thoughts  of  one  great  mind,  have  built  up 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world.' 

As  he  closes  his  long  survey,  the  Editor  trusts  he  may 
add  without  egotism,  that  he  has  found  the  vague  general 
verdict  of  popular  Fame  more  just  than  those  have 
thought,  who,  with  too  severe  a  criticism,  would  confine 
judgments  on  Poetry  to  '  the  selected  few  of  many  gener- 
ations.' Not  many  appear  to  have  gained  reputation 
without  some  gift  or  performance  that,  in  due  degree, 
deserved  it:  and  if  no  verses  by  certain  writers  who  show 
less  strength  than  sweetness,  or  more  thought  than 
mastery  of  expression,  are  printed  in  this  volume,  it 
should  not  be  imagined  that  they  have  been  excluded 
without  much  hesitation  and  regret, — far  less  that  they 
have  been  slighted.  Throughout  this  vast  and  pathetic 
array  of  Singers  now  silent,  few  have  been  honoured  with 
the  name  Poet,  and  have  not  possessed  a  skill  in  words,  a 
sympathy  with  beauty,  a  tenderness  of  feeling,  or  serious- 
aess  in  reflection,  which  render  their  works,  although 
never  perhaps  attaining  that  loftier  and  finer  excellence 
here  required, — better  worth  reading  than  much  of  what 
fills  the  scanty  hours  that  most  men  spare  for  self-improve- 
ment, or  for  pleasure  in  'any  of  its  more  elevated  and 
permanent  forms. — And  if  this  be  true  of  even  mediocre 
poetry,  for  how  much  more  are  we  indebted  to  the  best! 


50  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

Like  the  fabled  fountain  of  the  Azores,  but  with  a  more 
various  power,  the  magic  of  this  Art  can  confer  on  each 
period  of  life  its  appropriate  blessing:  on  early  years 
Experience,  on  maturity  Calm,  on  age,  Youthfulness. 
Poetry  gives  treasures  'more  golden  than  gold,'  leading 
us  in  higher  and  healthier  ways  than  those  of  the  world, 
and  interpreting  to  us  the  lessons  of  Nature.  But  she 
speaks  best  for  herself.  Her  true  accents,  if  the  plan  has 
been  executed  with  success,  may  be  heard  throughout  the 
following  pages: — wherever  the  Poets  of  England  are 
honoured,  wherever  the  dominant  language  of  the  world 
is  spoken,  it  is  hoped  that  they  will  find  fit  audience. 

1861 

Some  poems,  especially  in"  Book  I,  have  been  added: — 
either  on  better  acquaintance ;-— in  deference  to  critical 
suggestions; — or  unknown  to  the  Editor  when  first 
gathering  his  harvest.  For  aid  in  these  after-gleanings 
he  is  specially  indebted  to  the  excellent  reprints  of  rare 
early  verse  given  us  by  Dr.  Hannah,  Dr.  Grosart,  Mr. 
Arber,  Mr.  Bullen,  and  others,  —  and  (in  regard  to  the 
additions  of  1883)  to  the  advice  of  that  distinguished 
Friend,  by  whom  the  final  choice  has  been  so  largely 
guided.  The  text  has  also  been  carefully  revised  from 
authoritative  sources.  It  has  still  seemed  best,  for  many 
reasons,  to  retain  the  original  limit  by  which  the  selection 
was  confined  to  those  then  no  longer  living.  But  the 
Editor  hopes  that,  so  far  as  in  him  lies,  a  complete  and 
definitive  collection  of  our  best  Lyrics,  to  the  central  year 
of  this  fast-closing  century,  is  now  offered. 

1883-1890-1891 


Crea^urp 

TBook  JFiwt 


SPRING 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king; 
Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  a  ring, 
Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we   to-witta-woo  I 

»  The  palm  and  may  make  country  houses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all  day. 
And  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo! 

The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our  feet., 
lo  Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a-sunning  sit, 
In  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet. 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo! 
Spring!  the  sweet  Spring! 
T.  Nash. 
51 


52  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  pi 


II 
THE  FAIRY  LIFE 


Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I: 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie; 

There  I  couch,  when  owls  do  cry: 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
5  After  summer  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 


2 
Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands: 
Courtsied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd 

The  wild  waves  whist, 
5  Foot  it  featly  here  and  there; 

And,  sweet  Sprites,  the  burthen  bear 
Hark,  hark! 

Bow-bow. 

The  watch-dogs  bark: 
1C  Bow-wow. 

Hark,  hark!  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow! 

W.  Shakespeare 

IV 

SUMMONS  TO  LOVE 

Phoebus,  ariseJ 

And  paint  the  sable  skies 

With  azure,  white,  and  red: 

Rouse  Memnon's  mother  from  her  Tithon's  bed 


iv]  Book  First  53 

That  she  may  thy  career  with  roses  spread: 
The  nightingales  thy  coming  each-where  sing: 
Make  an  eternal  Spring! 

Give  life  to  this  dark  world  which  lieth  dead; 
5  Spread  forth  thy  golden  hair 

In  larger  locks  than  thou  wast  wont  before, 
And  emperor-like  decore 
With  diadem  of  pearl  thy  temples  fair: 
Chase  hence  the  ugly  night 
10  Which  serves  but  to  make  dear  thy  glorious  light. 

— This  is  that  happy  morn, 

That  day,  long-wished  day 

Of  all  my  life  so  dark, 

(If  cruel  stars  have  not  my  ruin  sworn 
15  And  fates  my  hopes  betray), 

Which,  purely  white,  deserves 

An  everlasting  diamond  should  it  mark. 

This  is  the  morn  should  bring  unto  this  grcve 

My  Love,  to  hear  and  recompense  my  love. 
.20  Fair  King,  who  all  preserves, 

But  show  thy  blushing  beams, 

And  thou  two  sweeter  eyes 

Shalt  see  than  those  which  by  Peneois'  streams 

Did  once  thy  heart  surprize. 
25  Now,  Flora,  deck  thyself  in  fairest  guise: 

If  that  ye  winds  would  hear 

A  voice  surpassing  far  Amphion's  lyre, 

Your  furious  chiding  stay; 

Let  Zephyr  only  breathe. 
30  And  with  her  tresses  play. 

— The  winds  all  silent  are} 

And  Phoebus  in  his  chair 

Ensaffroning  sea  and  air 

Makes  vanish  every  star: 
35  Night  like  a  drunkard  reels 

Beyond  the  hills,  to  shun  his  flaming  wheels: 

The  fields  with  flowers  are  deck'd  in  every  hue, 

The  clouds  with  orient  gold  spangle  their  blue; 

Here  is  the  pleasant  place — 
40  And  nothing  wanting  is,  save  She,  alas! 

W.  Drummond  of  Hawthornden 


54  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [v 

v 
TIME  AND  LOVE 

1 

When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced 
The  rich  proud  cost  of  out-worn  buried  age; 
When  sometime  lofty  towers  I  see  down-razed, 
And  brass  eternal  slave  to  mortal  rage; 
5  When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  watery  main, 
Increasing  store  with  loss,  and  loss  with  store; 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state, 
10  Or  state  itself  confounded  to  decay, 

Ruin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  ruminate — 
That  Time  will  come  and  take  my  Love  away: 

— This  thought  is  as  a  death,  which  cannot  choose 
But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. 
W.  Shakespeare 


Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea, 
But  sad  mortality  o'ersways  their  power, 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower? 
5  O  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days, 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout 
Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  time  decays? 
O  fearful  meditation!  where,  alack! 
10  Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest  lie  hid? 
Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot  back, 
Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid? 
O!  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might, 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine  bright. 
W.  Shakespeare. 


vii]  Book  First  56 


THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS  LOVE 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dale  and  field, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yield. 

6  There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks 

And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
10  And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 

A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider' d  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull, 
15  Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs: 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
20          Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat 
As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 
Shall  on  an  ivory  table  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

25          The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May-morning: 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 
C.  Marlowe 


56  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [viii 


OMNI  A  VINCIT 

Fain  would  I  change  that  note 
To  which  fond  Love  hath  charm'd  me 
Long  long  to  sing  by  rote, 
Fancying  that  that  harm'd  me: 
5  Yet  when  this  thought  doth  come 

'Love  is  the  perfect  sum 

Of  all  delight,' 
I  have  no  other  choice 
Either  for  pen  or  voice 
10  To  sing  or  write. 

0  Love!  they  wrong  thee  much 
That  say  thy  sweet  is  bitter. 
When  thy  rich  fruit  is  such 

As  nothing  can  be  sweeter. 
1.5  Fair  house  of  joy  and  bliss, 

Where  truest  pleasure  is 
I  do  adore  thee: 

1  know  thee  what  thou  art, 
I  serve  thee  with  my  heart, 

20  And  fall  before  thee! 

Anon. 


IX 

A  MADRIGAL 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth 
Cannot  live  together: 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 
Age  is  full  of  care; 
Youth  like  summer  morn, 
Age  like  winter  weather, 
Youth  like  summer  brave., 
Age  like  winter  bare: 


x]  Book  First  57 

Youth  is  full  of  sport, 
Age's  breath  is  short, 
Youth  is  nimble,  Age  is  lame:' 
Youth  is  hot  and  bold, 
5  Age  is  weak  and  cold, 

Youth  is  wild,  and  Age  is  tame: — 
Age,  I  do  abhor  thee, 
Youth,  I  do  adore  thee; 
O!  my  Love,  my  Love  is  young! 
10  Age,  I  do  defy  thee — 

O  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee, 

For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 

W.  Shakespeare 


Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
15  And  turn  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hithert 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
20  But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets — 
25  Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 

Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

W.  Shakespeare 


68  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xi 


It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass 

With  a  hey  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  noninol 
That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass 
In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
5       When  birds  do  sing  hey  ding  a  ding: 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  Spring. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie: 
This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 
10      How  that  life  was  but  a  flower: 

And  therefore  take  the  present  time 

With  a  hey  and  a  ho  and  a  hey  noninol 
For  love  is  crowne'd  with  the  prime 
In  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
16      When  birds  do  sing  hey  ding  a  ding: 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  Spring. 

W.  Shakespeare 


XII 

PRESENT  IN  ABSENCE 

Absence,  hear  thou  this  protestation 
Against  thy  strength, 
Distance,  and  length; 
Do  what  thou  canst  for  alteration: 
6  For  hearts  of  truest  mettle 

Absence  doth  join,  and  Time  doth  settle. 

Who  loves  a  mistress  of  such  quality, 
His  mind  hath  found 
Affection's  ground 
/O          Beyond  time,  place,  and  mortality. 

To  hearts  that  cannot  vary 
Absence  is  present,  Time  doth  tarry. 


xiv]  Book  First  59 

By  absence  this  good  means  I  gain, 
That  I  can  catch  her, 
Where  none  can  match  her, 
In  some  close  corner  of  my  brain: 
5      •         There  I  embrace  and  kiss  her; 
And  so  I  both  enjoy  and  miss  her. 

J '.  Donne 


XIII 

VIA  AMORIS 

High-way,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be, 
And  that  my  Muse,  to  some  ears  not  unsweet, 
Tempers  her  words  to  trampling  horses'  feet 
More  oft  than  to  a  chamber-melody, — 

5  Now,  blessed  you  bear  onward  blessed  me 
To  her,  where  I  my  heart,  safe-left,  shall  meet; 
My  Muse  and  I  must  you  of  duty  greet 
With  thanks  and  wishes,  wishing  thankfully; 
Be  you  still  fair,  honour'd  by  public  heed; 

10  By  no  encroachment  wrong'd,  nor  time  forgot; 
Nor  blamed  for  blood,  nor  shamed  for  sinful  deed; 
And  that  you  know  I  envy  you  no  lot 
Of  highest  wish,  I  wish  you  so  much  bliss, — 
Hundreds  of  years  you  Stella's  feet  may  kiss! 

Sir  P.  Sidney 


xiv 

ABSENCE 

Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend 
Upon  the  hours  and  times  of  your  desire? 
I  have  no  precious  time  at  all  to  spend 
Nor  services  to  do,  till  you  require: 
Nor  dare  I  chide  the  world-without-end-hour 
Whilst  I,  my  sovereign,  watch  the  clock  for  you, 
Nor  think  the  bitterness  of  absence  sour 
When  you  have  bid  your  servant  once  adieu: 


60  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xiv 

Nor  dare  I  question  with  my  jealous  thought 
Where  you  may  be,  or  your  affairs  suppose, 
But  like  a  sad  slave,  stay  and  think  of  nought 
Save,  where  you  are,  how  happy  you  make  those; — 
5       So  true  a  fool  is  love,  that  in  your  will 
Though  you  do  any  tiling,  he  thinks  no  ill. 

W.  Shakespeare 


How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  Thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days  seen, 
What  old  December's  bareness  everywhere! 
5  And  yet  this  time  removed  was  summer's  time: 
The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  increase, 
Bearing  the  wanton  burden  of  the  prime 
Like  widow'd  wombs  after  their  lord's  decease: 
Yet  this  abundant  issue  seem'd  to  me 
10  But  hope  of  orphans,  and  unfather'd  fruit; 
For  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee, 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute; 
Or  if  they  sing,  'tis  with  so  dull  a  cheer, 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter's  near. 
W.  Shakespeare 


XVI 

A  CONSOLATION 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate; 
5  Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope. 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possest, 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 


xviii]  Book  First  61 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  Thee — and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate; 
5       For  thy  sweet  love  remembered,  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 
W.  Shakespeare 


THE  UNCHANGEABLE 

O  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart, 
Though  absence  seem'd  my  flame  to  qualify: 
As  easy  might  I  from  myself  depart 
As  from  my  soul,  which  in  thy  breast  doth  lie; 
5  That  is  my  home  of  love;  if  I  have  ranged, 
Like  him  that  travels,  I  return  again, 
Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  exchanged, 
So  that  myself  bring  water  for  my  stain. 
Never  believe,  though  in  my  nature  reign'd 
10  All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood, 
That  it  could  so  preposterously  be  stain'd 
To  leave  for  nothing  all  thy  sum  of  good: 
For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I  call, 
Save  thou,  my  rose:  in  it  thou  art  my  all. 

W.  Shakespeare 


To  me,  fair  Friend,  you  never  can  be  old, 
For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyed 
Such 'seems  your  beauty  still.     Three  winters  cold 
Have  from  the  forest  shook  three  summers'  pride; 
5  Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn  turn'd 
In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen, 
Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burn'd, 
Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 
Ah!  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 
10  Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceived; 


62  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xviii 

So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still  doth  stand, 
Hath  motion,  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceived: 
For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred, — • 
Ere  you  were  born,  was  beauty's  summer  dead. 

W.  Shakespeare 


ROSALINE 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere 
Where  all  imperial  glory  shines, 
Of  selfsame  colour  is  her  hair 
Whether  unfolded,  or  in  twines: 
6  Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline! 

Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 
Resembling  heaven  by  every  wink; 
The  Gods  do  fear  whenas  they  glow 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think 

10  Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine! 

Her  cheeks  are  like  the  blushing  cloud 
That  beautifies  Aurora's  face, 
Or  like  the  silver  crimson  shroud 
That  Phoebus'  smiling  looks  doth  grace  j 

15  Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline! 

Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses 
Whom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbour  nigh, 
Within  which  bounds  she  balm  encloses 
Apt  to  entice  a  deity: 

20  Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine! 

Her  neck  is  like  a  stately  tower 
Where  Love  himself  imprison'd  lies, 
To  watch  for  glances  every  hour 
From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes: 

25  Heigh  ho,  for  Rosaline! 

Her  paps  are  centres  of  delight, 
Her  breasts  are  orbs  of  heavenly  frame, 
Where  Nature  moulds  the  dew  of  light 
To  feed  perfection  with  the  same: 

30    ,  Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine! 


xx]  Book  First  63 

With  orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red, 
With  marble  white,  with  sapphire  blue 
Her  body  every  way  is  fed, 
Yet  soft  in  touch  and  sweet  in  view: 
5  Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline! 

Nature  herself  her  shape  admires; 
The  Gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight; 
And  love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires 
And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light: 
10  Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine! 

Then  muse  not,  Nymphs,  though  I  bemoan 
The  absence  of  fair  Rosaline, 
Since  for  a  fair  there's  fairer  none, 
Nor  for  her  virtues  so  divine: 
15  Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline; 

Heigh  ho,  my  heart!  would  God  that  she  were  mine! 

T.  Lodge 
xx 

COLIN 

Beauty  sat  bathing  by  a  spring 

Where  fairest  shades  did  hide  her; 
The  winds  blew  calm,  the  birds  did  sing, 

The  cool  streams  ran  beside  her. 
5       My  wanton  thoughts  enticed  mine  eye 

To  see  what  was  forbidden: 
But  better  memory  said,  fie! 
So  vain  desire  was  chidden: — 

Hey  nonny  nonny  Ol 
10  Hey  nonny  nonny  I 

Into  a  slumber  then  I  fell, 
When  fond  imagination 
Seemed  to  see,  but  could  not  tell 

Her  feature  or  her  fashion. 
15       But  ev'n  as  babes  in  dreams  do  smile, 

And  sometimes  fall  a-weeping, 
So  I  awaked,  as  wise  this  while 
As  when  I  fell  a-sleeping: — 

Hey  nonny  nonny  O! 
20  Hey  nonny  nonny! 

The  Shepherd  Tonie 


64  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xxi 


XXI 

A  PICTURE 

Sweet  Love,  if  thou  wilt  gain  a  monarch's  glory, 
Subdue  her  heart,  who  makes  me  glad  and  sorry: 
Out  of  thy  golden  quiver 
Take  thou  thy  strongest  arrow 
5  That  will  through  bone  and  marrow, 

And  me  and  thee  of  grief  and  fear  deliver: — 
But  come  behind,  for  if  she  look  upon  thee, 
Alas  I  poor  Love!  then  thou  art  woe-begone  thee! 

Anon. 


A  SONG  FOR  MUSIC 

Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains: — 

What  need  you  flow  so  fast? 
Look  how  the  snowy  mountains 

Heaven's  sun  doth  gently  waste! 
6  But  my  Sun's  heavenly  eyes 

View  not  your  weeping, 
That  now  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies, 
Sleeping. 

10       Sleep  is  a  reconciling, 

A  rest  that  peace  begets: — • 
Doth  not  the  sun  rise  smiling, 
When  fair  at  even  he  sets? 

— Rest  you,  then,  rest,  sad  eyesl 
15  Melt  not  in  weeping! 

While  She  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies, 
Sleeping! 

Anon. 


xxiv]  Book  First  65 


TO  HIS  LOVE 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thqu  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate: 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date: 
5  Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd: 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course,  untrimm'd. 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade 
10  Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest; 

Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wanderest  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest: — 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

W.  Shakespeare 


TO  HIS  LOVE 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  lovely  knights; 
5  Then  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  exprest 
Ev'n  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
10  Of  this  our  time,  all,  you  prefiguring; 

And  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing: 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 
W.  Shakespeare 


Palgrave's  Go Iden  Treasury  [xxv 


BASIA 

Turn  back,  you  wanton  flyer, 
And  answer  my  desire 

With  mutual  greeting. 
Yet  bend  a  little  nearer, — 
5  True  beauty  still  shines  clearer 

In  closer  meeting! 
Hearts  with  hearts  delighted 
Should  strive  to  be  united, 
Each  other's  arms  with  arms  enchaining, — 
iO  Hearts  with  a  thought, 

Rosy  lips  with  a  kiss  still  entertaining. 

What  harvest  half  so  sweet  is 
As  still  to  reap  the  kisses 

Grown  ripe  in  sowing? 
15  And  straight  to  be  receiver 

Of  that  which  thou  art  giver, 

Rich  in  bestowing? 
There  is  no  strict  observing 
Of  times'  or  seasons'  swerving, 
20       There  is  ever  one  fresh  spring  abiding; — 
Then  what  we  sow  with  our  lips 
Let  us  reap,  love's  gains  dividing. 

T.  Campion 


XXVI 

ADVICE  TO  A  GIRL 

Never  love  unless  you  can 

Bear  with  all  the  faults  of  man! 

Men  sometimes  will  jealous  be 

Though  but  little  cause  they  see, 

And  hang  the  head  as  discontent, 

And  speak  what  straight  they  will  repent. 


xxvii]  Book  First 

Men,  that  but  one  Saint  adore, 
Make  a  show  of  love  to  more; 
Beauty  must  be  scorn'd  in  none, 
Though  but  truly  served  in  one: 
5  For  what  is  courtship  but  disguise? 

True  hearts  may  have  dissembling  eyes. 

Men,  when  their  affairs  require, 
Must  awhile  themselves  retire; 
Sometimes  hunt,  and  sometimes  hawk, 
10  And  not  ever  sit  and  talk: — 

If  these  and  such-like  you  can  bear, 
Then  like,  and  love,  and  never  fear! 
T.  Campion 


LOVE'S  PERJURIES 

On  a  day,  alack  the  day! 
Love,  whose  month  is  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air: 
5  Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind. 

All  unseen,  'gan  passage  find; 
That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 
Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath. 
Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow: 

10  Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so! 

But,  alack,  my  hand  is  sworn 
Ne'er  to  pluck,  thee  from  thy  thorn 
Vow,  alack,  for  youth  unmeet; 
Youth  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 

15  Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me 

That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee' 
Thou  for  whom  Jove  would  swear 
Juno  but  an  Ethiope  were, 
And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 

20  Turning  mortal  for  thy  love. 

W.  Shakespeare 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xxviii 


A  SUPPLICATION 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 
Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent, 

Forget  not  yet! 

5  Forget  not  yet  when  first  began 

The  weary  life  ye  "know,  since  whan 
The  suit,  the  service  none  tell  can; 
Forget  not  yet' 

Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays, 
10  The  cruel  wrong,  the  scornful  ways, 

The  painful  patience  in  delays, 

Forget  not  yet  I 

Forget  not!  O,  forget  not  this,, 
How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is 
15  The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss — • 

Forget  not  yet! 

Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  loved, 
Whose  steadfast  faith  yet  never  moved — • 
20  Forget  not  this! 

Sir  T.  Wyat 


XXIX 

TO  AURORA 

O  if  thou  knew'st'  how  thou  thyself  dost  harm, 
And  dost  prejudge  thy  bliss,  and  spoil  my  rest; 
Then  thou  would'st  melt  the  ice  out  of  thy  breast 
And  thy  relenting  heart  would  kindly  warm. 
5  O  if  thy  pride  did  not  our  joys  controul, 

What  world  of  loving  wonders  should'st  thou  seel 
For  if  I  saw  thee  once  transform' d  in  me, 
Then  in  thy  bosom  I  would  pour  my  soul; 


xxx]  Book  First  69 

Then  all  my  thoughts  should  in  thy  visage  shine, 
And  if  that  aught  mischanced  thou  should' st  not  moan 
Nor  bear  the  burthen  of  thy  griefs  alone; 
No,  I  would  have  my  share  in  what  were  thine: 
5  And  whilst  we  thus  should  make  our  sorrows  one, 
This  happy  harmony  would  make  them  none. 

W.  Alexander,  Earl  of  Sterline 


xxx 
IN  LACRIMAS 

I  saw  my  Lady  weep, 
And  Sorrow  proud  to  be  advanced  so 
In  those  fair  eyes  where  all  perfections  keep. 

Her  face  was  full  of  woe, 

But  such  a  woe  (believe  me)  as  wins  more  hearts 
Than  Mirth  can  do  with  her  enticing  parts. 

Sorrow  was  there  made  fair, 
And  Passion,  wise;  Tears,  a  delightful  thing; 
Silence,  beyond  all  speech,  a  wisdom  rare: 

She  made  her  sighs  to  sing, 
And  all  things  with  so  sweet  a  sadness  move 
As  made  my  heart  at  once  both  grieve  and  love, 

O  fairer  than  aught  else 

The  world  can  show,  leave  off  in  time  to  grieve! 
Enough,  enough:  your  joyful  look  excels: 

Tears  kill  the  heart,  believe. 
O  strive  not  to  be  excellent  in  woe, 
Which  only  breeds  your  beauty's  overthrow. 

Anon. 


70  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xxxi 


TRUE  LOVE 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or.  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove: — 
5  O  no!  it  is  an  ever  fixe"d  mark 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken, 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
10  Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  ev'n  to  the  edge  of  doom: — 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

W.  Shakespeare 


A  DITTY 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  for  another  given: 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss, 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven: 
6  My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 
My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides; 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides: 
10  My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

Sir  P.  Sidney 


rxxiv]  Book  First  71 


LOVE'S  INSIGHT 

Though  others  may  Her  brow  adore 

Yet  more  must  I,  that  therein  see  far  more 

Than  any  other's  eyes  have  power  to  see: 

She  is  to  me 

More  than  to  any  others  she  can  be! 
I  can  discern  more  secret  notes 
That  in  the  margin  oi  her  cheeks  Love  quotes, 
Than  any  else  besides  have  art  to  read: 

No  looks  proceed 
From  those  fair  eyes  but  to  me  wonder  breed. 

Anon. 


LOVE'S  OMNIPRESENCE 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain, 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  high  as  heaven  above, 
Yet  should  the  thoughts  of  me  your  humble  swain 
Ascend  to  heaven,  in  honour  of  my  Love. 

5  Were  I  as  high  as  heaven  above  the  plain, 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  humble  and  as  low 
As  are  the  deepest  bottoms  of  the  main, 
Whereso'er  you  were,  with  you  my  love  should  go. 
Were  you  the  earth,  dear  Love,  and  I  the  skies, 
My  love  should  shine1  on  you  like  to  the  sun, 

10  And  look  upon  you  with  ten  thousand  eyes 

Till  heaven  wax'd  blind,  and  till  the  world  were  done. 
Whereso'er  I  am,  below,  or  else  above  you, 
Whereso'er  you  are,  my  heart  shall  truly  love  you. 

J.  Sylvester 


72  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xxxv 


CARPE  DIEM 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
O  stay  and  hear!  your  true-love's  coming 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low; 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting — 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love?  'tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure: 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty, — 
Then  come  kiss  me,  Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

W.  Shakespeare 


AN  HONEST  AUTOLYCUS 

Fine  knacks  for  ladies,  cheap,  choice,  brave,  and  new, 

Good  penny-worths, — but  money  cannot  move: 
I  keep  a  fair  but  for  the  Fair  to  view; 

A  beggar  may  be  liberal  of  love. 
6  Though  all  my  wares  be  trash,  the  heart  is  true — 
The  heart  is  true. 

Great  gifts  are  guiles  and  look  for  gifts  again; 
My  trifles  come  as  treasures  from  my  mind; 
It  is  a  precious  jewel  to  be  plain; 
10       Sometimes  in  shell  the  orient'st  pearls  we  find: — 
Of  others  take  a  sheaf,  of  me  a  grain! 
Of  me  a  grain! 

Anon. 


jrxxviiil  Book  First  f 3 


WINTER 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 

And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail; 

When  blood  is  nipt,  and  ways  be  foul, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 
Tu-whit! 

Tu-who!  A  merry  note! 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  about  the  wind  doth  blow, 
And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saws 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw; 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl  —  • 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 
Tu-whit! 

Tu-who!  A  merry  note! 


While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 
W. 


Shakes' 


That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
.Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang- 

5  In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest: 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 

10  That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie 
As  the  death- bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by: 


74  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xxxviii 

— This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more 

strong, 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 
W.  Shakespeare 


MEMORY 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste; 
5  Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since-cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight. 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
10  And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoane'd  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before: 

— But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  Friend, 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 

W.  Shakespeare 


XL 
SLEEP 

Come,  Sleep:  O  Sleep!  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low; 
5  With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prease 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw: 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 


xlii]  Book  First  75 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber. deaf  of  noise  and  blind  of  light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head: 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 
5  Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 

Sir  P.  Sidney 


XLI 

REVOLUTIONS 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore 
So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before, 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 
5  Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light, 

Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crown'd, 
Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 
And  Time  that  gave,  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  nourish  set  on  youth, 
10  And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow; 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow: — 
And  yet,  to  times  in  hope,  my  verse  shall  stand 
Praising  Thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

W.  Shakespeare 


Farewell!  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 
And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  estimate: 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing; 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 
5  For  how  do  I  hold  thee  but  by  thy  granting? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting, 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 


76  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xlii 

Thyself,  thou  gav'st,  thy  own  worth  then  not  knowing, 
Or  me,  to  whom  thou  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking; 
So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  making. 
5       Thus  have  I  had  thee  as  a  dream  doth  natter; 
In  sleep,  a  king;  but  waking,  no  such  matter. 

W .  Shakespeare 


THE  LIFE  WITHOUT  PASSION 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and  will  do  none, 
That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 
Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone, 
Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow, — - 
5  They  rightly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces, 
And  husband  nature's  riches  from  expense; 
They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces, 
Others,  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 
The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet, 
10  Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die; 

But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet, 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity: 

For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds; 

Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds. 

W .  Shakespeare 


XLIV 

THE  LOVER'S  APPEAL 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay!  say  nay!  for  shame 
To  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame. 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay!  say  nay! 


xiv]  Book  First  77 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth  and  woe  among: 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
£>  As  for  to  leave  me  thus? 

Say  nay!  say  nay! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  given  thee  my  heart 
Never  for  to  depart 
(0  Neither  for  pain  nor  smart: 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay!  say  nay! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
And  have  no  more  pity 
15  Of  him  that  loveth  thee? 

Alas!  thy  cruelty! 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay!  say  nay! 

Sir  T.  Wyat 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

As  it  fell  npon  a  day 
In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 
Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing, 
Trees  did  grow  and  plants  did  spring. 
Every  thing  did  banish  moan 
Save  the  Nightingale  alone. 
She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 
Lean'd  her  breast  up-till  a  thorn, 
And  there  sung  the  dolefull'st  ditty 
That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 
Fie,  fie,  fie,  now  would  she  cry; 
Teru,  teru,  by  and  by: 
That  to  hear  her  so  complain 
Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain- 


78  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  (xlv 

For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown 
Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 
— Ah,  thought  I,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain? 
None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain: 
5       Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee, 
Ruthless  beasts,  they  will  not  cheer  thee; 
King  Pandion,  he  is  dfad, 
All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead: 
All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing 
10       Careless  of  thy  sorrowing: 

Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee 
None  alive  will  pity  me. 

R.  Barnefield 


Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born, 
Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care  return. 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill-adventured  youth: 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn, 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 
Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow; 
Never  let  rising  Sun  approve  you  liars, 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow: 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain, 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 

S.  Daniel 


The  nightingale,  as  soon  as  April  bringeth 
Unto  her  rested  sense  a  perfect  waking, 

While  late-bare  earth,  proud  of  new  clothing,  springeth, 
Sings  out  her  woes,  a  thorn  her  song-book  making; 


xlviii]  Book  First  79 

And  mournfully  bewailing, 
Her  throat  in  tunes  expresseth 
What  grief  her  breast  oppresseth 
For  Tereus'  force  on  aer  chaste  will  prevailing. 

5  O  Philomela  fair,  O  take  some  gladness, 
That  here  is  juster  cause  of  plaintful  sadness: 
Thine  earth  now  springs,  mine  fadeth; 
Thy  thorn  without,  my  thorn  my  heart  invadeth. 

Alas,  she  hath  no  other  cause  of  anguish 
10    ,  But  Tereus'  love,  on  her  by  strong  hand  wroken, 
Wherein  she  suffering,  all  her  spirits  languish, 
Full  womanlike  complains  her  will  was  broken. 
But  I,  who,  daily  craving, 
Cannot  have  to  content  me, 
15  Have  more  cause  to  lament  me, 

Since  wanting  is  more  woe  than  too  much  having. 

O  Philomela  fair,  O  take  some  gladness 
That  here  is  juster  cause  of  plaintful  sadness: 
Thine  earth  now  springs,  mine  fadeth; 
20  Thy  thorn  without,  my  thorn  my  heart  invadeth. 

Sir  P.  Sidney 


XLVIH 
FRUSTRA 

Take,  O  take  those  lips  away 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn, 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  mom: 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again — 
Seals  of  love,  but  seaPd  in  vain, 

Seal'd  in  vain! 

W   Shakespeare 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 


LOVE'S  FAREWELL 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part, — 

Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me; 

And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 

That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free; 
5  Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 

Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  love's  latest  breath, 
10  When  his  pulse  failing,  passion  speechless  lies, 

When  faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death. 

And  innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 

— Now  if  thou  would'st,  when  all  have  given  him  over, 

From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recoverl 

M.  Drayton 


L 
IN  IMAGINE  PERTRANSIT  HOMO 

Follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow! 

Though  thou  be  black  as  night 

And  she  made  all  of  light, 
Yet  follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow! 

5  Follow  her,  whose  light  thy  light  depriveth! 
Though  here  thou  liv'st  disgraced, 
And  she  in  heaven  is  placed, 
Yet  follow  her  whose  light  the  world  reviveth! 

Follow  those  pure  beams,  whose  beauty  burneth, 
10       That  so  have  scorched  thee 
As  thou  still  black  must  be 
Till  her  kind  beams  thy  black  to  brightness  turneth. 


lii]  Book  First  81 

Follow  her,  while  yet  her  glory  shineth! 

There  comes  a  luckless  night 

That  will  dim  all  her  light; 
— And  this  the  black  unhappy  shade  divineth. 

5       Follow  still,  since  so  thy  fates  ordained! 
The  sun  must  have  his  shade, 
Till  both  at  once  do  fade, — • 
The  sun  still  proved,  the  shadow  still  disdained. 

T.  Campion 


LI 

BLIXD  LOVE 

O  me!  what  eyes  hath  Love  put  in  my  head  fa    A 
Which  have  no  correspondence  with  true  sight:   Jv~ 
Or  if  they  have,  where  is  my  judgment  fled  <X 
That  censures  falsely  what  they  see  aright?  >'.>- 
5  If  that  be  fair  whereon  my  false  eyes  dote,  £ 
What  means  the  world  to  say  it  is  not  so?  T 
If  it  be  not,  then  love  doth  well  denote  C  * 
Love's  eye  is  not  so  true  as  all  men's:  No,1^ 
How  can  it?  O  how  can  love's  eye  be  true,'-' 
10  That  is  so  vex'd  with  watching  and  with  tears? 
No  marvel  then  though  I  mistake  my  view:  £, 
The  sun  itself  sees  not  till  heaven  clears.   £ 

O  cunning  Love!  with  tears  thou  keep'st  me  blind,  ^ 
Lest  eyes  well-seeing  thy  foul  faults  should  find!  W  ^ 
W.  Shakespeare* 


Sleep,  angry  beauty,  sleep  and  fear  not  me! 

For  who  a  sleeping  lion  dares  provoke? 
It  shall  suffice  me  here  to  sit  and  see 

Those  lips  shut  up  that  never  kindly  spoke: 
What  sight  can  more  content  a  lover's  mind 
Than  beauty  seeming  harmless,  if  not  kind? 


82  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [lii 

My  words  have  charm'd  her,  for  secure  she  sleeps, 
Though  guilty  much  of  wrong  done  to  my  love; 
And  in  her  slumber,  see!  she  close-eyed  weeps: 

Dreams  often  more  than  waking  passions  move. 
5  Plead,  Sleep,  my  cause,  and  make  her  soft  like  thee: 
That  she  in  peace  may  wake  and  pity  me. 

T.  Campion 


THE  UNFAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS 

While  that  the  sun  with  his  beams  hot 
Scorched  the  fruits  in  vale  and  mountain, 
Philon  the  shepherd,  late  forgot, 
Sitting  beside  a  crystal  fountain, 
In  shadow  of  a  green  oak  tree 
Upon  his  pipe  this  song  play'd  he: 
Adieu,  Love,  adieu,  Love,  untrue  Love, 
Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu,  Love; 
Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 

So  long  as  I  was  in  your  sight 

I  was  your  heart,  your  soul  and  treasure; 

And  evermore  you  sobb'd  and  sigh'd 

Burning  in  flames  beyond  all  measure: 
— Three  days  endured  your  love  to  me, 
And  it  was  lost  in  other  three! 

Adieu,  Love,  adieu,  Love,  untrue  Love, 

Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu,  Love; 

Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 

Another  Shepherd  you  did  see 

To  whom  your  heart  was  soon  enchaine'd; 

Full  soon  your  love  was  leapt  from  me, 

Full  soon  my  place  he  had  obtained. 
Soon  came  a  third,  your  love  to  win, 
And  we  were  out  and  he  was  in. 

Adieu,  Love,  adieu,  Love,  untrue  Love, 

Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu.  Love; 

Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 


liv]  Book  First  83 

Sure  you  have  made  me  passing  glad 
That  you  your  mind  so  soon  removed, 
Before  that  I  the  leisure  had 
To  choose  you  for  my  best  beloved: 
5  For  all  your  love  was  past  and  done 

Two  days  before  it  was  begun: — 
Adieu,  Love,  adieu,  Love,  untrue  Love, 
Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu,  Love; 
Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 

Anon, 


ADVICE  TO  A  LOVER 

The  sea  hath  many  thousand  sands, 
The  sun  hath  motes  as  many; 
The  sky  is  full  of  stars,  and  Love 
As  full  of  woes  as  any: 
Believe  me,  that  do  know  the  elf, 
And  make  no  trial  by  thyself! 

It  is  in  truth  a  pretty  toy 

For- babes  to  play  withal: — 

But  O!  the  honeys  of  our  youth 

Are  oft  our  age's  gall! 

Self-proof  in  time  will  make  thee  know 

He  wras  a  prophet  told  thee  so; 

A  prophet  that,  Cassandra-like, 

Tells  truth  without  belief; 

For  headstrong  Youth  will  run  his  race, 

Although  his  goal  be  grief:- — 

Love's  Martyr,  when  his  heat  is  past, 

Proves  Care's  Confessor  at  the  last, 

Anon, 


84  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  (lv 


A  RENUNCIATION 

Thou  art  not  fair,  for  all  thy  red  and  white, 
For  all  those  rosy  ornaments  in  thee, — 

Thou  art  not  sweet,  though  made  of  mere  delight 

Nor  fair,  nor  sweet — unless  thou  pity  me! 
5  I  will  not  soothe  thy  fancies;  thou  shalt  prove 

That  beauty  is  no  beauty  without  love. 

— Yet  love  not  me,  nor  seek  not  to  allure 

My  thoughts  with  beauty,  were  it  more  divine: 
Thy  smiles  and  kisses  I  cannot  endure, 
V)       I'll  not  be  wrapp'd  up  in  those  arms  of  thine: 
— Now  show  it,  if  thou  be  a  woman  right — 
Embrace  and  kiss  and  love  me  in  despite! 

T.  Campion 


Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen 
H  Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh  ho!  sing  heigh  ho!  unto  the  green  holly: 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly: 

Then,  heigh  ho!  the  holly! 
10  This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot: 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
15.  Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember'd  not. 
Heigh  ho!  sing  heigh  ho!  unto  the  green  holly: 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly: 

Then,  heigh  ho!  the  holly! 
20  This  life  is  most  jolly. 

W.  Shakespeare 


Ivii]  Book  First  85 


A  SWEET  LULLABY 

Come  little  babe,  come  silly  soul, 
Thy  father's  shame,  thy  mother's  grief, 
Born  as  I  doubt  to  all  our  dole, 
And  to  thy  self  unhappy  chief: 
5  Sing  Lullaby  and  lap  it  warm, 

Poor  soul  that  thinks  no  creature  harm. 

Thou  little  think'st  and  less  dost  know, 
The  cause  of  this  thy  mother's  moan, 
Thou  want'st  the  wit  to  wail  her  woe, 
10       And  I  myself  am  all  alone: 

Why  dost  thou  weep?  why  dost  thou  wail? 

And  knowest  not  yet  what  thou  dost  ail. 

Come  little  wretch,  ah  silly  heart, 

Mine  only  joy,  what  can  I  more? 
15       If  there  be  any  wrong  thy  smart 

That  may  the  destinies  implore: 

'Twas  I,  I  say,  against  my  will, 
I  wail  the  time,  but  be  thou  still. 

And  dost  thou  smile,  oh  thy  sweet  face! 
20      Would  God  Himself  He  might  thee  see, 

No  doubt  thou  would'st  soon  purchase  grace, 
I  know  right  well,  for  thee  and  me: 

But  come  to  mother,  babe,  and  play, 

For  father  false  is  fled  away. 

25       Sweet  boy,  if  it  by  fortune  chance, 
Thy  father  home  again  to  send, 
If  death  do  strike  me  with  his  lance, 
Yet  mayst  thou  me  to  him  commend: 
If  any  ask  thy  mother's  name, 

30  Tell  how  by  love  she  purchased  blame. 

Then  will  his  gentle  heart  soon  yield, 
I  know  him  of  a  noble  mind, 
Although  a  Lion  in  the  field, 


86  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ivii 

A  Lamb  in  town  thou  shalt  him  find: 
Ask  blessing,  babe,  be  not  afraid, 
His  sugar'd  words  hath  me  betray'd. 

Then  mayst  thou  joy  and  be  right  glad, 
5       Although  in  woe  I  seem  to  moan, 

Thy  father  is  no  rascal  lad, 

A  noble  youth  of  blood  and  bone: 

His  glancing  looks,  if  he  once  smile, 
Right  honest  women  may  beguile. 

10       Come,  little  boy,  and  rock  asleep, 
Sing  lullaby  and  be  thou  still, 
I  that  can  do  nought  else  but  weep; 
Will  sit  by  thee  and  wail  my  fill: 

God  bless  my  babe,  and  lullaby 
15  From  this  thy  father's  quality! 

Anon. 


With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies! 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face! 
What,  may  it  be  that  e'en  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries! 
5  Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case, 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks;  thy  languish'd  grace, 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  e'en  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 
10  Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of  wit? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth 
Do  they  call  virtue,  there,  ungratefulness? 

Sir  P.  Sidney 


ixj  Book  First  87 

LIX 

O  CRU DELIS  AMOR 

When  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  underground, 
And  there  arrived,  a  new  admired  guest, 
The  beauteous  spirits  do  engirt  thee  round, 
White  lope,  blithe  Helen,  and  the  rest, 
5  To  hear  the  stories  of  thy  finish'd  love 

From  that  smooth  tongue  whose  music  hell  can  move; 

Then  wilt  thou  speak  of  banqueting  delights. 
Of  masques  and  revels  which  sweet  youth  did  make, 
Of  tourneys  and  great  challenges  of  Knights, 
10  Arid  all  these  triumphs  for  thy  beauty's  sake: 
When  thou  hast  told  these  honours  done  to  thee, 
Then  tell, .O  tell,  how  thou  didst  murder  me! 

T.  Campion 


SEPHESTIA'S  SONG  TO  HER  CHILD 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee; 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy; 
5  When  thy  father  first  did  see 

Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me, 

He  was  glad,  I  was  woe, 

Fortune  changed  made  him  so, 

When  he  left  his  pretty  boy 
10  Last  his  sorrow,  first  his  joy. 

Weep  not    my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee, 

Streaming  tears  that  never  stint, 

Like  pearl  drops  from  a  flint, 
15  Fell  by  course  from  his  eyes, 

That  one  another's  place  supplies; 

Thus  he  grieved  in  every  part, 

Tears  of  blood  fell  from  his  heart, 

When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 
20  Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ix 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old,  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

The  wanton  smiled,  father  wept, 

Mother  cried,  baby  leapt; 

More  he  crow'd,  more  we  cried, 

Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide: 

He  must  go,  he  must  kiss 

Child  and  mother,  baby  bless, 

For  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 
Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old,  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

R.  Greene 


LXI 

A  LAMENT 

My  thoughts  hold  mortal  strife; 

I  do  detest  my  life, 

And  with  lamenting  cries 

Peace  to  my  soul  to  bring 

Oft  call  that  prince  which  here  doth  monarchize 

— But  he,  grim  grinning  King, 

Who  caitiffs  scorns   and  doth  the  blest  surprise, 

Late  having  deck'd  with  beauty's  rose  his  tomb, 

Disdains  to  crop  a  weed,  and  will  not  come. 

W.  Drummond 


LXH 
DIRGE  OF  LOVE 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death, 
And  in  sad  cypres  let  me  be  laid; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath; 
I  ai-4  dain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 


briii]  Book  First  81 

My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  -with  yew, 

O  prepare  it! 
My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 

Did  share  it. 

5  Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet 

On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown* 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 
10  Lay  me,  O  where 

Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 

W.  Shakespeare 


LXIII 

TO  HIS  LUTE 

My  lute,  be  as  thou  wert  when  thou  didst  grow 
With  thy  green  mother  in  some  shady  grove, 
When  immelodious  winds  but  made  thee  move, 
And  birds  their  ramage  did  on  thee  bestow. 

5  Since  that  dear  Voice  which  did  thy  sounds  approve, 
Which  wont  in  such  harmonious  strains  to  flow, 
Is  reft  from  Earth  to  tune  those  spheres  above, 
What  art  thou  but  a  harbinger  of  woe? 
Thy  pleasing  notes  be  pleasing  notes  no  more, 

10  But  orphans'  wailings  to  the  fainting  ear; 

Each  stroke  a  sigh,  each  sound  draws  forth  a  tear; 
For  which  be  silent  as  in  woods  before: 
Or  if  that,  any  hand  to  touch  thee  deign, 
Like  widow'd  turtle,  still  her  loss  complain. 

W.  Drummond 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  flxiv 


FIDELE 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages, 

Golden  lads,  and  girls  all  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dunt. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke;. 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak: 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning  flash 

Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash; 

Thou  hast  finish'd  joy  and  moan: 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

W.  Shakespear^ 


LXV 

A  SEA  DIRGE 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies: 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes: 
Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell: 
Hark!  now  I  hear  them, — 
Ding,  dong,  bell. 

W.  Shakespeare 


Ixvii]  Book  First  91 

LXVI 
A  LAND  DIRGE 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 
Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover 
And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 
5  Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 

The  ant,  the  field-mouse,  and  the  mole 
To  rear  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm 
And  (when  gay  tombs  are  robb'd)  sustain  no  harm; 
But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to  men, 
10  For  with  his  nails  he'll  dig  them  up  again. 

J.  Webster 


LXVII 

POST  MORTEM 

If  Thou  survive  my  well-contented  day 
When  that  churl  Death  my  bones  with  dust  shall  cover, 
And  shalt  by  fortune  once  more  re-survey 
These  poor  rude  lines  of  thy  deceased  lover; 
5  Compare  them  with  the  bettering  of  the  time, 
And  though  they  be  outstripp'd  by  every  pen, 
Reserve  them  for  my  love,  not  for  their  rhyme 
Exceeded  by  the  height  of  happier  men. 
O  then  vouchsafe  me  but  this  loving  thought — 
10  'Had  my  friend's  Muse  grown  with  this  growing  age, 
A  dearer  birth  than  this  his  love  had  brought, 
To  march  in  ranks  of  better  equipage: 

But  since  he  died,  and  poets  better  prove, 
Theirs  for  their  style  I'll  read,  his  for  his  love.' 
W.  Shakespeare 


92  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixviii 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  DEATH 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world,  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell; 
5  Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 
O  if,  I  say,  you  look  upon  this  verse 
10  When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay, 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse, 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay; 

Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan, 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

W.  Shakespeare 


LXIX 
YOUNG  LOVE 

Tell  me  where  is  Fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head? 
How  begot,  how  nourished? 
Reply,  reply. 

5  .        It  is  engender' d  in  the  eyes; 

With  gazing  fed;  and  Fancy  dies 

In  the  cradle  where  it  lies: 

Let  us  all  ring  Fancy's  knell; 

I'll  begin  it, — Ding,  dong,  bell. 
10  . — Ding,  dong,  bell. 

W.  Shakespeare 


txxi]  Book  First  93 

LXX 

A  DILEMMA 

Lady,  when  I  behold  the  roses  sprouting 

Which  clad  in  damask  mantles  deck  the  arbours. 
And  then  behold  your  lips  where  sweet  love 

harbours, 

My  eyes  present  me  with  a  double  doubting: 
5  For  viewing  both  alike,  hardly  my  mind  supposes 
Whether  the  roses  be  your  lips,  or  your  lips  the  roses 

Anon. 


ROSALYND'S  MADRIGAL 

Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee, 

Doth  suck  his  sweet; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his  feet. 

5  Within  mine  eyes,  he  makes  his  nest, 

His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast, 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest: 
Ah!  wanton,  will  ye? 

10      And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he 
With  pretty  flight, 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee 

The  livelong  night. 

Strike  I  'my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string; 
1.5  He  music  plays  if  so  I  sing; 

He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing, 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting, 
Whist,  wanton,  will  ye? 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 
20  Will  whip  you  hence, 


94  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxi 

And  bind  you,  when  you  long  to  play, 

For  your  offence; 
I'll  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  you  in; 
I'll  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin; 
5  I'll  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin; 

— Alas!  what  hereby  shall  I  win, 
If  he  gainsay  me? 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 
With  many  a  rod? 
10       He  will  repay  me  with  annoy, 

Because  a  god. 

Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee, 
And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee, 
15  O  Cupid!  so  thou  pity  me, 

Spare  not,  but  play  thee! 

T.  Lodge 


CUPID  AND  CAMPASPE 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe"  play'd 

At  cards  for  kisses;  Cupid  paid: 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows, 

His  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows; 

Loses  them  too;  then  down  he  throws 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how); 

With  these,  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  on  his  chin; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win: 

And  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes — 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love!  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 

What  shall,  alas!  become  of  me? 

J.  Lylye 


Ixxiv]  Book  First 


Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day, 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow; 
Sweet  air  blow  soft,  mount  larks  aloft 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow! 
5       Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow; 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale  sing, 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow; 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow; 
10  Notes  from  them  both  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  Robin-red-breast, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow; 
And  from  each  hill,  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  Love  good-morrow! 
15       Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 
Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow! 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves 
Sing  my  fair  Love  good-morrow; 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
20  Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow! 

T.  Heywood 


LXXIV 

PROTHALAMION 

Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  air 
Sweet-breathing  Zephyrus  di*d  softly  play — 
A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 
Hot  Titan's  beams,  which  then  did  glister  fair; 
5  When  I,  (whom  sullen  care, 

Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitless  stay 
In  princes'  court,  and  expectation  vain 
Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  do  fly  away 
Like  empty  shadows,  did  afflict  my  brain) 
10  Walk'd  forth  to  ease  my  pain 


36  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxiv 

Along  the  shore  of  silver-streaming  Thames; 
Whose  rutty  bank,  the  which  his  river  hems, 
Was  painted  all  with  variable  flowers, 
And  all  the  meads  adorn'd  with  dainty  gems 
5  Fit  to  deck  maidens'  bowers, 
And  crown  their  paramours 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

There  in  a  meadow  by  the  river's  side 
10  A  flock  of  nymphs  I  chanced  to  espy,. 

All  lovely  daughters  of  the  flood  thereby, 

With  goodly  greenish  locks  all  loose  untied 

As  each  had  been  a  bride; 

And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket 
15  Made  of  fine  twigs,  entrailed  curiously. 

In  which  they  gather' d  flowers  to  fill  their  flasket, 

And  with  fine  fingers  cropt  full  feateously 

The  tender  stalks  on  high. 

Of  every  sort  which  in  that  meadow  grew 
20  They  gather'd  some;  the  violet,  pallid  blue, 

The  little  daisy  that  at  evening  closes, 

The  virgin  lily  and  the  primrose  true, 

With  store  of  vermeil  roses, 

To  deck  their  bridegrooms'  posies 
25  Against  the  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long: 

Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

With  that  I  saw  two  swans  of  goodly  hue 

Come  softly  swimming  down  along  the  Lee; 

Two  fairer  birds  I  yet  did  never  see; 
30  The  snow  which  doth  the  top  of  Pindus  strow 

Did  never  whiter  show, 

Nor  Jove  himself,  wrhen  he  a  swan  would  be 

For  love  of  Leda,  whiter  did  appear; 

Yet  Leda  was  (they  say)  as  white  as  he, 
35  Yet  not  so  white  as  these,  nor  nothing  near; 

So  purely  white  they  were 

That  even  the  gentle  stream,  the  which  them  bare, 

Seem'd  foul  to  them,  and  bade  his  billows 

To  wet  their  silken  feathers,  lest  they  might 
40  Soil  their  fair  plumes  with  water  not  so  fair, 


kxiv]  Book  First  97 

And  mar  their  beauties  bright 
That  shone  as  Heaven's  light 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long: 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

5  Eftsoons  the  nymphs,  which  now  had  flowers  their  fill, 
Ran  all  in  haste  to  see  that  silver  brood 
As  they  came  floating  on  the  crystal  flood; 
Whom  when  they  saw,  they  stood  amazed  still 
Their  wondering  eyes  to  fill; 

to  Them  seem'd  they  never  saw  a  sight  so  fair 
Of  fowls,  so  lovely,  that  they  sure  did  deem 
Them  heavenly  born,  or  to  be  that  same  pair 
Which  through  the  sky  draw  Venus'  silver  team; 
For  sure  they  did  not  seem 

15  To  be  begot  of  any  earthly  seed, 

But  rather  Angels,  or  of  Angels'  breed; 
Yet  were  they  bred  of  summer's  heat,  they  say, 
In  sweetest  season,  when  each  flower  and  weed 
The  earth  did  fresh  array; 

10  So  fresh  they  seem'd  as  day, 

Ev'n  as  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long: 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

Then  forth  they  all  out  of  their  baskets  drew 

Great  store  of  flowers,  the  honour  of  the  field, 
25  That  to  the  sense  did  fragrant  odours  yield, 

All  which  upon  those  goodly  birds  they  threw 

And  all  the  waves  did  strew, 

That  like  old  Peneus'  waters  they  did  seem 

When  down  along  by  pleasant  Tempe's  shore 
30  Scatter' d  with  flowers,  through  Thessaly  they  stream, 

That  they  appear,  through  lilies'  plenteous  store, 

Like  a  bride's  chamber-floor. 

Two  of  those  nymphs  meanwhile  two  garlands  bound 

Of  freshest  flowers  which  in  that  mead  they  found. 
35  The  which  presenting  all  in  trim  array, 

Their  snowy  foreheads  therewithal  they  crown'd; 

Whilst  one  did  sing  this  lay 

Prepared  against  that  day, 

Against  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long: 
40       Sweet  Thames!  run  softly  till  I  end  my  song. 


98  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxiv 

'Ye  gentle  birds!  the  world's  fair  ornament, 
And  Heaven's  glory,  whom  this  happy  hour 
Doth  lead  unto  your  lovers'  blissful  bower, 
Joy  may  you  have,  and  gentle  hearts'  content 
5  Of  your  love's  couplement; 
And  let  fair  Venus,  that  is  queen  of  love, 
With  her  heart-quelling  son  upon  you  smile, 
Whose  smile,  they  say,  hath  virtue  to  remove 
All  love's  dislike,  and  friendship's  faulty  guile 

10  For  ever  to  assoil. 

Let  endless  peace  your  steadfast  hearts  accord, 
And  blessed  plenty  wait  upon  your  board; 
And  let  your  bed  with  pleasures  chaste  abound, 
That  fruitful  issue  may  to  you  afford 

15  Which  may  your  foes  confound, 
And  make  your  joys  redound 
Upon  your  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song.' 

So  ended  she;  and  all  the  rest  around 
20  To  her  redoubled  that  her  undersong, 

Which  said  their  bridal  day  should  not  be  long: 

And  gentle  Echo  from  the  neighbour  ground 

Their  accents  did  resound. 

So  forth  those  joyous  birds  did  pass  along 
25  Adown  the  Lee  that  to  them  murmur' d  low, 

As  he  would  speak  but  that  he  lack'd  a  tongue; 

Yet  did  by  signs  his  glad  affection  show, 

Making  his  stream  run  slow. 

And  all  the  fowl  which  in  his  flood  did  dwell 
30  'Gan  flock  about  these  twain,  that  did  excel 

The  rest,  so  far  as  Cynthia  doth  shend 

The  lesser  stars.     So  they,  enranged  well. 

Did  on  those  two  attend, 

And  their  best  service  lend 

35  Against  their  wedding  day,  which  was  not  long! 
Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

At  length  they  all  to  merry  London  came, 
To  merry  London,  my  most  kindly  nurse, 
That  to  me  gave  this  life's  first  native  source, 
40  Though  from  another  place  I  take  my  name, 


Ixxiv]  Book  First  99 

An  house  of  ancient  fame: 

There  when  they  came  whereas  those  bricky  towers 
The  which  on  Thames'  broad  aged  back  do  ride, 
Where  now  the  studious  lawyers  have  their  bowers, 
5  There  whilome  wont  the  Templar-knights  to  bide, 
Till  they  decay'd  through  pride; 
Next  whereunto  there  stands  a  stately  place, 
Where  oft  I  gained  gifts  and  goodly  grace 
Of  that  great  lord,  which  therein  wont  to  dwell, 
10  Whose  want  too  well  now  feels  my  friendless  case; 
But  ah!  here  fits  not  well 
Old  woes,  but  joys  to  tell 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

15  Yet  therein  now  doth  lodge  a  noble  peer, 

Great  England's  glory  and  the  world's  wide  wonder, 
Whose    dreadful    name    late    through    all    Spain    did 

thunder, 

And  Hercules'  two  pillars  standing  near 
Did  make  to  quake  and  fear: 

20  Fair  branch  of  honour,  flower  of  chivalry! 
That  fillest  England  with  thy  triumphs'  fame 
Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victory, 
And  endtess  happiness  of  thine  own  name 
That  promiseth  the  same; 

25  That  through  thy  prowess  and  victorious  arms 
Thy  country  may  be  freed  from  foreign  harms, 
And  great  Elisa's  glorious  name  may  ring 
Through  all  the  world,  fill'd  with  thy  wide  alarm."? 
Which  some  brave  Muse  may  sing 

30  To  ages  following: 

Upon  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song 

From  those  high  towers  this  noble  lord  issuing 
Like  Radiant  Hesper,  when  his  golden  hair 
35  In  th'  ocean  billows  he  hath  bathed  fair, 
Descended  to  the  river's  open  viewing 
With  a  great  train  ensuing. 
Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  be  seen 
Two  gentle  knights  of  lovely  face  and  feature, 


100  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxiv 

Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  any  queen, 
With  gifts  of  wit  and  ornaments  of  nature, 
Fit  for  so  goodly  stature, 

That  like  the  twins  of  Jove  they  seem'd  in  sight 
5  Which  deck  the  baldric  of  the  Heavens  bright; 
They  two,  forth  pacing  to  the  river's  side, 
Received  those  two  fair  brides,  their  love's  delight: 
Which,  at  th'  appointed  tide, 
Each  one  did  make  his  bride 
10  Against  their  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long: 

Sweet  Thames!  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

E.  Spenser 


THE  HAPPY  HEART 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers? 

O  sweet  content! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplex'd? 

O  punishment! 

6  Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vex'd 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers? 
O  sweet  content!  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content  •! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face; 
10  Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny! 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring? 

O  sweet  content! 

Swimm'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine  own 
tears? 

O  punishment! 

15  Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king! 
O  sweet  content!  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face; 
20  Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny! 

T:  Dekker 


Ixxvii]  Book  First  101 


SIC  TRANSIT 

Come,  cheerful  day,  part  of  my  life  to  me; 

For  while  thou  vievv'st  me  with  thy  fading  light 
Part  of  my  life  doth  still  depart  with  thee, 

And  I  still  onward  haste  to  my  last  night: 
5  Time's  fatal  wings  do  ever  forward  fly — 
So  every  day  we  live  a  day  we  die. 

But  O  ye  nights,  ordain'd  for  barren  rest, 

How  are  my  days  deprived  of  life  in  you 
When  heavy  sleep  my  soul  hath  dispossest, 
10       By  feigned  death  life  sweetly  to  renew! 
Part  of  my  life,  in  that,  you  life  deny: 
So  every  day  we  live,  a  day  we  die. 

T,  Campion 


This  Life,  which  seems  so  fait, 
Is  like  a  bubble  blown  up  in  the  air 
By  sporting  children's  breath, 
Who  chase  it  everywhere 

5       And  strive  who  can  most  motion  it  bequeath. 
And  though  it  sometimes  seem  of  its  own  might 
Like  to  an  eye  of  gold  to  be  fix'd  there, 
And  firm  to  hover  in  that  empty  height, 
That  only  is  because  it  is  so  light. 

10      — But  in  that  pomp  it  doth  not  long  appear; 
For  when  'tis  most  admired,  in  a  thought, 
Because  it  erst  was  nought,  it  turns  to  nought. 
W.  Drummond 


402  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  flxxviii 

LXXVIII 
SOUL  AND  BODY 

Poor  Soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
[Foil'd  by]  those  rebel  powers  that  thee  array, 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within,  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 
5  Why  so  large  cost,-  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 
Eat  up  thy  charge?  is  this  thy  body's  end? 
Then,  Soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 
10  And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store; 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more: — 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  death,  that  feeds  on  men, 
And  death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying  then. 
W.  Shakespeare 


The  man  of  life  upright, 

Whose  guiltless  heart  is  free 

from  all  dishonest  deeds, 
Or  thought  of  vanity; 

ft  The  man  whose  silent  days 

In  harmless  joys  are  spent. 
Whom  hopes  cannot  delude 
Nor  sorrow  discontent: 

That  man  needs  neither  towers 
10  Nor  armour  for  defence, 

Nor  secret  vaults  to  fly 
From  thunder's  violence: 


Ixxx]  Book  First  103 

He  only  can  behold 

With  unaffrighted  eyes 
The  horrors  of  the  deep 

And  terrors  of  the  skies. 

5  Thus  scorning  all  the  cares 

That  fate  or  fortune  brings, 

He  makes  the  heaven  his  book, 

His  wisdom  heavenly  things; 

Good  thoughts  his  only  friends, 
10  His  wealth  a  well-spent  age, 

The  earth  his  sober  inn 
And  quiet  pilgrimage. 

T.  Campion 


LXXX 
THE  LESSONS  OF  NATURE 

Of  this  fair  volume  wThich  we  World  do  name 
If  we  the  sheets  and  leaves  could  turn  with  care, 
Of  Him  who  it  corrects,  and  did  it  frame, 
We  clear  might  read  the  art  and  wisdom  rare: 
5  Find  out  His  power  which  wildest  powers  doth  tame, 
His  providence  extending  everywhere, 

.     His  justice  which  proud  rebels  doth  not  spare, 
In  every  page,  no  period  of  the  same 
But  silly  we,  like  foolish  children,  rest 

10  Well  pleased  with  colour 'd  vellum,  leaves  of  gold. 
Fair  dangling  ribbands,  leaving  what  is  best, 
On  the  great  Writer's  sense  ne'er  taking  hold; 
Or  if  by  chance  we  stay  our  minds  on  aught, 
It  is  s-'me  picture  on  the  margin  wrought. 

W.  Drummond. 


104  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxxi 


Doth  then  the  world  go  thus,  doth  all  thus  move? 
Is  this  the  justice  which  on  Earth  we  find? 
Is  this  that  firm  decree  which  all  doth  bind? 
Are  these  your  influences,  Powers  above? 
5  Those  souls  which  vice's  moody  mists  most  blind, 
Blind  Fortune,  blindly,  most  their  friend  doth  prove; 
And  they  who  thee,  poor  idol  Virtue!  love, 
Ply  like  a  feather  toss'd  by  storm  and  wind. 
Ah!  if  a  Providence  doth  sway  this  all 
iQ  Why  should  best  minds  groan  under  most  distress? 
Or  why  should  pride  humility  make  thrall, 
And  injuries  the  innocent  oppress? 
Heavens!  hinder,  stop  this  fate;  or  grant  a  time 
When  good  may  have,  as  well  as  bad,  their  prime! 

W.  Drummond 


THE  WORLD'S  WAY 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  J  cry — > 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
And  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  jollity, 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 
5  And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplaced, 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced, 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
10  And  folly,  doctor-like,  controlling  skill, 
And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity, 
And  captive  Good  attending  captain  111: — 

— Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  Love  alone. 

W.  Shakespeare 


Ixxivl  Book  First  105 

LXXXIII 

A  WISH 

Happy  were  he  could  finish  forth  his  fate 
In  some  unhaunted  desert,  where,  obscure 
From  all  society,  from  love  and  hate 
Of  worldly  folk,  there  should  he  sleep  secure; 

5  Then  wake  again,  and  yield  God  ever  praise; 
Content  with  hip,  with  haws,  and  brambleberry; 
In  contemplation  passing  still  his  days, 
And  change  of  holy  thoughts  to  make  him  merry: 

Who,  when  he  dies,  his  tomb  might  be  the  bush 
10  Where  harmless  robin  resteth  with  the  thrush: 
— Happy  were  he! 

R.  Devereux,  Earl' of  Essex 


LXXXIV 

SAINT  JOHN  BAPTIST 

The  last  and  greatest  Herald  of  Heaven's  King 
Girt  with  rough  skins,  hies  to  the  deserts  wild, 
Among  that  savage  brood  the  woods  forth  bring, 
Which  he  more  harmless  found  than  man,  and  miW. 
5  His  food  was  locusts,  and  what  there  doth  spring, 
With  honey  that  from  virgin  hives  distill 'd; 
Parch'd  body,  hollow  eyes,  some  uncouth  thing 
Made  him  appear,  long  since  from  earth  exiled. 
There  burst  he  forth:  All  ye  whose  hopes  rely 
10  On  God,  with  me  amidst  these  deserts  mourn, 
Repent,  repent,  and  from  old  errors  turn! 
— Who  listen'd  to  his  voice,  obey'd  his  cry? 
Only  the  echoes,  which  he  made  relent, 
Rung  from  their  flinty  caves,  Repent!  Repent! 

W.  Drummond 


Clje 


Second 


ODE  ON  THE  MORNING  OF  CHRIST'S 
NATIVITY 

Thi,;  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  mom 
Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  Eternal  King 
Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born, 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring; 
5  For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing 
That  He  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release, 
And  with  His  Father  work  us  a  perpetual  peace. 

That  glorious  Form,  that  Light  unsufferable, 
And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  Majesty 
10  Wherewith  He  wont  at  Heaven's  high  council-table 
To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 
He  laid  aside;  and,  here  with  us  to  be, 
Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 
And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal  clay 

15  Say,  heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 
Afford  a  present  to  the  Infant  God? 
Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain 
To  welcome  Him  to  this  His  new  abode, 
Now  while  the  heaven,  by  the  sun's  team  untrod, 
20  Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light, 

And  all  the  spangled   host   keep  watch  in  squadrons 
bright? 

106 


Ixxxv]  Book  Secona  107 

See  how  from  far,  upon  the  eastern  road, 
The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odours  sweet: 
O  run,  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode 
And  lay  it  lowly  at  His  blessed  feet; 
5  Have  thou  the  honour  first  thy  Lord  to  greet, 
And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  Angel  quire 
From  out  His  secret  altar  touch'd  with  hallow'd  fire. 


THE  HYMN 

It  was  the  winter  wild 
While  the  heaven-born  Child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies; 
Nature  in  awe  to  Him 
5  Had  doff'd  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize: 

It  was  no  season  then  for  her 

To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
10  She  woos  the  gentle  air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow; 

And  on  her  naked  shame, 

Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw; 
15  Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 

Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  He,  her  fears  to  cease, 
Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace; 
She,  crown'd  with  olive  green,  came  softly  sliding 
20  Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 
His  ready  harbinger, 

With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing; 
And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 
She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and  land. 

25  No  war,  or  battle's  sound 
Was  heard  the  world  around: 
The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  uphung; 
The  hooked  chariot  stood 


108  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxxv 

Unstain'd  with  hostile  blood; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng; 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 

As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord  was  by. 

5  But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 
His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began: 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters  kist 
10  Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean — 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
Wliile  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave, 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 

Stand  fix'd  in  steadfast  gaze, 
15  Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence; 

And  will  not  take  their  flight 

For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  warn'd  them  thence; 

But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow 
20  Until  their  Lord  Himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 
The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
25  As  his  inferior  flame 

The  new-enlighten'd  world  no  more  should  need; 

He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 

Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axletree  could  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn 
30  Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn 

Sate  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row; 

Full  little  thought  they  than 

That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below; 
35  Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep 

Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep: — 

When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet 


fxxxv]  Book  Second  109 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook — 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 
As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took: 
5  The  air,  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose, 

With  thousand  echoes   still  prolongs  each   heavenly 
close. 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 
Of  Cynthia's  seat  the  airy  region  thrilling, 
10  Now  was  almost  won 

To  think  her  part  was  done, 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling; 

She  knew  such  harmony  alone 

Could  hold  all  Heaven  and  Earth  in  happier  union. 

35  At  last  surrounds  their  sight 

A  globe  of  circular  light 

That  with  long  beams  the  shamefaced  night  array'd; 

The  helmed  Cherubim 

And  sworded  Seraphim 
20  Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  display'd, 

Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire 

With  unexpressive  notes,  to  Heaven's  new-born  Heir. 

Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 

Before  was  never  made 
25  But  when  of  old  the  Sons  of  Morning  sung, 

While  the  Creator  great 

His  constellations  set 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung; 

And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
30  And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel  keep. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres! 
Once  bless  our  human  ears, 
If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
35  Move  in  melodious  time; 

And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow; 

And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 

Make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic  symphony. 


110  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxxv 

For  if  such  holy  song 
Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 

Time  will  inn  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold; 
And  speckled  Vanity 
5  Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 
And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould; 
And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away, 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
10  Will  down  return  to  men, 

Orb'd  in  a  rainbow;  and,  like  glories  wearing, 

Mercy  will  sit  between 

Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steering; 
15  And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 

Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace-hall. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  No; 
This  must  not  yet- be  so; 
The  Babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy 
20  That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss; 
So  both  Himself  and  us  to  glorify: 
Yet  first,  to  those  ychain'd  in  sleep 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through  the 
deep; 

25  With  such  a  horrid  clang 

As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang 

While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds  outbrake: 

The  aged  Earth  aghast 

With  terror  of  that  blast 
30  Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake, 

When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 

The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread  His 
throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is, 

35  But  now  begins;  for  from  this  happy  day 
The  old  Dragon  under  ground, 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 
Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway; 


Ixxxv]  Book  Second  111 

And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  Oracles  are  dumb; 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

5  Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving. 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving: 
No  nightly  trance  or  breathed  spell 
10  Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er 

And  the  resounding  shore 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard,  and  loud  lament; 

From  haunted  spring  and.  dale 
15  Edged  with  poplar  pale 

The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent; 

With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn 

The   Nymphs  in   twilight   shade   of  tangled  thickets 
mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth 
20  And  on  the  holy  hearth 

The  Lars  and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight  plaint; 

In  urns,  and  altars  round 

A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Affrights  the  Flamens  at  their  service  quaint; 
25  And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 

While  each  peculiar  Power  foregoes  his  wonted  seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 
•With  that  twice-batter'd  god  of  Palestine; 
30  And  mooned  Ashtaroth 

Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine; 

The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn: 

In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammuz 


35  And  sullen  Moloch,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue; 


112  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxxv 

In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 
In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue; 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
5  Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 
In  Memphian  grove,  or  green, 

Trampling  the  unshower'd  grass  with  lowings  loud: 
Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
10  Within  his  sacred  chest; 

Nought  but  profoundest  Hell  can  be  his  shroud; 

In  vain  with  timbrell'd  anthems  dark 

The  sable-stolid  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipt  ark. 

He  feels  from  Juda's  land 
15  The  dreaded  Infant's  hand; 

The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn; 

Nor  all  the  gods  beside 

Longer  dare  abide, 

Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine: 
20  Our  Babe,  to  show  His  Godhead  true, 

Can  in  His  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew. 

So,  when  the  sun  in  bed 
Curtain 'd  with  cloudy  red 
Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
25  The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 
Each  fetter 'd  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave; 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 

Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their  moon-lovea 
maze. 

30  But  see!  the  Virgin  blest 

Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest; 

Time  is,  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending: 

Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 

Hath  fix'd  her  polish 'd  car, 
35  Her  sleeping  Lord  with  hand-maid  lamp  attending: 

And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 

Bright-harness 'd  Angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 

J.  Milton. 


Ixxxvi]  Book  Second  113 


SOXG  FOR  ST.  CECILIA'S  DAY,  1687 

From  harmony,  from  Heavenly  Harmony 

This  universal  frame  began:    • 
When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay 
5       And  could  not  heave  her  head, 

The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

Arise,  ye  more  than  dead! 
Then  cold  and  hot  and  moist  and  dry 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 

And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 

This  universal  frame  began: 

From  harmony  to  harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
15  The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 

When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
20       To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 

Less  than  a  god  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well, 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 

25       The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double  double  double  beat 
30  Of  the  thundering  drum 

Cries  'Hark!  the  foes  come; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat!' 

The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 


114  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  Qxxxvi 

The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whisper' d  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
5       Fury,  frantic  indignation, 

Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion 

For  the  fair  disdainful  dame. 

But  oh!  what  art  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach 
10          The  sacred  organ's  praise? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race, 
15       And  trees  unrooted  left  their  place 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre: 

But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher: 
When  to  her  Organ  vocal  breath  was  given 
An  Angel  heard,  and  straight  appear'd — 
20          Mistaking  Earth  for  Heaven. 

Grand  Chorus 
As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blest  above; 
25       So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 

J.  Dryden 

LXXXVII 

ON  THE  LATE  MASSACRE  IN  PIEDMONT 

Avenge,  O  Lord!  Thy  slaughter'd  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scatter' d  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold; 
Even  them  who  kept  Thy  truth  so  pure  of  old 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipt  stocks  and  stones, 


Ixxxviii]  Book  Second  115 

Forget  not :  In  Thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  Thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  roll'd 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 
5  The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  Heaven.     Their  martyr'd  blood  and  ashes  BOW 
O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 
The  triple  Tyrant:  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred-fold,  who,  having  learnt  Thy  way, 
10  Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

J.  Milton 


HORATIAN  ODE  UPON  CROMWELL'S 
RETURN  FROM  IRELAND 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear, 
Must  now  forsake  his  Muses  dear, 
Nor  in  the  shadows  sing 
His  numbers  languishing. 

5  'Tis  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust, 

And  oil  the  unused  armour's  rust, 
Removing  from  the  wall 
The  corslet  of  the  hall. 

So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
10  In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

But  through  adventurous  war 
Urged  his  active  star: 

And  like  the  three-fork' d  lightning,  first 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nurst, 
15  Did  thorough  his  own  Side 

His  fiery  way  divide: 

For  'tis  all  one  to  courage  high, 
The  emulous,  or  enemy; 

And  with  such,  to  enclose 
20  Is  more  than  to  oppose; 


116  Palgrave'ts  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxxviii 

Then  burning  through  the  air  he  went 

And  palaces  and  temples  rent; 
And  Caesar's  head  at  last 
Did  through  his  laurels  blast. 

5  Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 

The  face  of  angry  heaven's  flame; 
And  if  we  would  speak  true, 
Much  to  the  Man  is  due 

Who,  from  his  private  gardens,  where 
10  He  lived  reserved  and  austere, 

(As  if  his  highest  plot 
To  plant  the  bergamot,) 

Could  by  industrious  valour  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  •  work  of  time, 
15  And  cast  the  Kingdoms  old 

Into  another  mould; 

Though  Justice  against  Fate  complain, 
And  plead  the  ancient  Rights  in  vain — 

But  those  do  hold  or  break 
2o  As  men  are  strong  or  weak; 

Nature,  that  hateth  emptiness, 
Allows  of  penetration  less, 

And  therefore  must  make  room 

Where  greater  spirits  come. 

25  What  field  of  all  the  civil  war 

Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scar? 
And  Hampton  shows  what  part 
He  had  of  wiser  art, 

Where,  twining  subtle  fears  with  hope, 
30  He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 
To  Carisbrook's  narrow  case, 

That  thence  the  Royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn: 
35  While  round  the  armed  bands 

Did  clap  their  bloody  hands. 


IxxxviiiJ  Book  Second 

He  nothing  common  did  or  mean 
Upon  that  memorable  scene. 
But  with  his  keener  eye 
The  axe's  edge  did  try; 

5  Nor  call'd  the  Gods,  with  vulgar  spite, 

To  vindicate  his  helpless  right; 
But  bow'd  his  comely  head 
Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 

— This  was  that  memorable  hour 
10  Which  first  assured  the  forced  power: 

So  when  they  did  design 
The  Capitol's  first  line, 

A  Bleeding  Head,  where  they  begun, 
Did  fright  the  architects  to  run; 
15  And  yet  in  that  the  State 

Foresaw  its  happy  fate! 

And  now  the  Irish  are  ashamed 

To  see  themselves  in  one  year  tamed: 

So  much  one  man  can  do 
20  That  does  both  act  and  know. 

They  can  affirm  his  praises  best, 
And  have,  though  overcome,  confest 
How  good  he  is,  how  just 
And  fit  for  highest  trust. 

25  Nor  yet  grown  stiff er  with  command. 

But  still  in  the  Republic's  hand — 
How  fit  he  is  to  sway 
That  can  so  well  obey! 

He  to  the  Commons'  feet  presents 
30  A  Kingdom  for  his  first  year's  rents. 

And  (what  he  may1)  forbears 
His  fame    to  make  it  theirs: 

And  has  his  sword  and  spoils  ungirfc 
To  lay  them  at  the  Public's  skirt. 
35  So  when  the  falcon  high 

Falls  hea.y  from  the  sky, 


118  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxxviii 

She,  having  kill'd,  no  more  doth  search 
But  on  the  next  green  bough  to  perch, 

Where,  when  he  first  does  lure, 

The  falconer  has  her  sure. 

5  — What  may  not  then  our  Isle  presume 

While  victory  his  crest  does  plume? 
What  may  not  others  fear 
If  thus  he  crowns  each  year? 

As  Caesar  he,  ere  long,  to  Gaul, 
10  To  Italy  an  Hannibal, 

And  to  all  States  not  free 
Shall  climacteric  be. 

The  Pict  no  shelter  now  shall  find 
Within  his  parti-colour'd  mind, 
15  But  from  this  valour  sad 

Shrink  underneath  the  plaid — 

Happy,  if  in  the  tufted  brake 
The  English  hunter  him  mistake, 

Nor  lay  his  hounds  in  near 
20  The  Caledonian  deer. 

But  Thou,  the  War's  and  Fortune's  son, 
March  indefatigably  on; 

And  for  the  last  effect 

Still  keep  the  sword  erect: 

25  Besides  the  force  it  has  to  fright 

The  spirits  of  the  shady  night, 
The  same  arts  that  did  gain 
A  power,  must  it  maintain. 

A.  Marvell 

LXXXIX 

LYCIDAS 

Elegy  on  a  Friend  drowned  in  the  Irish  Channel 

1637 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude. 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 


Ixxxix]  Book  Second  119 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due: 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
5  Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 

10  Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse: 

15  So  may  some  gentle  Muse 

With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn; 
And  as  he  passes,  turn 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 
For  we  wyere  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill, 

20  Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill: 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appear'd 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 

25  Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night. 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright 
Toward   heaven's    descent    had   sloped   his   westering 

wheel 

Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Temper'd  to  the  oaten  flute, 

30  Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long; 
And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  oh!  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return! 

35  Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves 
With  wild  thyme  and  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn: 
The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 
Shall  nowr  no  more  be  seen 

40  Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays: — 


120  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxxix 

As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 
Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows; 
5  Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 

10  Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream: 

Ay  me!  I  fondly  dream — 

Had  ye  been  there    .    .    .    For  what  could  that  have 

done? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 

15  The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 
When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore? 

20      Alas!  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's  trade 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 

25  Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 

Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 

30  And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     'But  not  the  praise" 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touch'd  my  trembling  ears; 
'Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 

35  Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies: 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 

40  Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed/ 


Ixxxix]  Book  Second  121 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honour'd  flood 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crown'd  with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood. 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
5  And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea; 
He  ask' d  the  waves,  and  ask'd  the  felon  winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doom'd  this  gentle  swain? 
And  question'd  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 

10  That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory: 
They  knew  not  of  his  story; 
And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  stray'd; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 

15  Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  play'd. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark 
Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigg'd  with  curses  dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 

20  His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge 

Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe: 
'Ah!  who  hath  reft,'  quoth  he,  'my  dearest  pledge!' 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go 

25  The  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 

(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain); 

He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake: 

'How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain - 

30  Enow  of  such,  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep  and  intrude  and  climb  into  the  fold! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 

35  Blind  mouths!  that   scarce  themselves  know  how  to 

hold 

A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learn'd  aught  else  the  least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs! 
What  recks  it  them?     What  need  they?     They  are 

sped; 
And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 


122  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [Ixxxix 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 
But  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread: 
5  Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said: 
• — But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more.' 

Return,  Alphe"us;  the  dread  voice  is  past 

10  That  shrunk  thy  streams;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks 

'5  On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks; 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamell'd  eyes 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honey' d  showers 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 

to  The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 

The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freak'd  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 

25  And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears: 
Bid  amarantus  all  his  beauty  shed, 
And  daffadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears 
To  strew  the  laureat  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

30  Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise: — 
Ay  me!  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 
Wash  far  away, — where'er  thy  bones  are  hurl'd, 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides 
Where  thou  perhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide, 

35  Visitest  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world; 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 
Where  the  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  mount 
Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold, 

40  — Look  homeward,  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth: 
— And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth! 


xc]  Book  Second  123 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no  more, 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor: 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 
5  And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head 

And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky:    ,  • 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walk'd  the  waves; 

10  Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  Saints  above 

15  In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies, 

That  sing,  and  singing,  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore 

20  In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  riils. 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  writh  sandals  gray; 
He  touch'd  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
25-  With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay: 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretch'd  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay: 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitch'd  his  mantle  blue: 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 

J.  Milton 

xc 
OX  THE  TOMBS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear 
What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here! 
Think  how  many  royal  bones 
Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones; 
5  Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands, 

Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands, 


124  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xc 

Where  from  their  pulpits  seal'd  with  dust 
They  preach,  'In  greatness  is  no  trust.' 
Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 
With  the  richest  royallest  seed 
5       That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in 
Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin: 
Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried 
'Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died!' 
Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 
10       Dropt  from  the  ruin'd  sides  of  kings: 
Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 
Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 

F.  Beaumont 

xci 
THE  LAST  CONQUEROR 

Victorious  men  of  earth,  no  more 
Proclaim  how  wide  your  empires  are; 

Though  you  bind-in  every  shore 

And  your  triumphs  reach  as  far 
5  As  night  or  day, 

Yet  you,  proud  monarchs,  must  obey 

And  mingle  with  forgotten  ashes,  when 

Death  calls  ye  to  the  crowd  of  common  men. 

Devouring  Famine,  Plague,  and  War, 
10       Each  able  to  undo  mankind, 
Death's  servile  emissaries  are; 
Nor  to  these  alone  confined. 

He  hath  at  will 

More  quaint  and  subtle  ways  to  kill; 
15  A  smile  or  kiss,  as  he  will  use  the  art, 

Shall  have  the  cunning  skill  to  break  a  heart. 

J.  Shirley 

xcn 
DEATH  THE  LEVELLER 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things; 

There  is  no  armour  against  fate; 

Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings: 


xch'i]  Book  Second  125 

Sceptre  and  Crown 

Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

5  Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 

And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill: 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still: 

Early  or  late 
10  They  stoop  to  fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds; 
15  Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor- victim  bleeds: 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
20  Smell  sweet    and  blossom  in  their  dust. 

J.  Shirley 


WHEN  THE  ASSAULT  WAS  INTENDED  TO 
THE  CITY 

Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  Arms, 
Whose  chance  on  these  defenceless  doors  may  seize, 
If  deed  of  honour  did  thee  ever  please, 
Guard  them,  and  him  within  protect  from  harms. 
5  He  can  requite  thee;  for  he  knows  the  charms 
That  call  fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as  these, 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  lands  and  seas, 
Whatever  clime  the  sun's  bright  circle  warms. 
Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower: 
10  The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bid  spare 

The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 


126  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xci 

Went  to  the  ground:  and  the  repeated  air 

Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 

To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  bare. 

J.  Milton 


ON  HIS  BLINDNESS 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
5  To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present. 
My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide, — 
Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied? 
I  fondly  ask: — But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies;  God  doth  not  need 
10  Either  man's  work,  or  His  own  gifts:  w-ho  best 

Bear  His  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best:  His  state 
Is  kingly;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest: — 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait. 

J.  Milton 


xcv 
CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will; 
Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 
Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath; 


xcvi]  Book  Second  127 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise 
Nor  vice;  Who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good: 

5  Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
10       More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend; 

— This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall; 
15       Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  H.  Wotton 


xcvi 
THE  NOBLE  NATURE 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  Man  better  be; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere: 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see; 
Arid  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

B.  Jonson 


128  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  •     Fxcvii 


THE  GIFTS  OF  GOD 

When  God  at  first  made  Man, 
Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by; 
Let  us  (said  He)  pour  on  him  all  we  can: 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 
6  Contract  into  a  span. 

So  strength  first  made  a  way; 

Then  beauty  flow'd,  then  wisdom,  honour,  pleasure; 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that  alone,  of  all  His  treasure, 
10  Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

For  if  I  should  (said  He) 
Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  My  creature, 
He  would  adore  My  gifts  instead  of  Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature, 
15  So  both  should  losers  be. 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness: 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 
20  May  toss  him  to  My  breast. 

G.  Herbert, 


XCVIII 

THE  RETREAT 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  Angel-infancy! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race., 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walk'd  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  Love, 


xcix]  Book  Second  129 

And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
5  And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 

Some  shadows  of  eternity; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
10  A  several  sin  to  every  sense, 

But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 

And  tread  again  that  ancient  track! 
15  That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain 

Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train; 

From  whence  th'  enlighten'd  spirit  sees 

That  shady  City  of  palm  trees! 

But  ah!  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
20  Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way: — 

Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 

But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move; 

And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 

In  that  state  I  came,  return. 

H.  Vaughan 


xcix 
TO  MR.  LAWRENCE 

Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son, 
Now  that  the  fields  are  dank  and  ways  are  mire, 
Where  shall  we  sometimes  meet,  and  by  the  fire 
Help  waste  a  sullen  day,  what  may  be  won 
5  From  the  hard  season  gaining?     Time  will  run 
On  smoother,  till  Favonius  re-inspire 
The  frozen  earth,  and  clothe  in  fresh  attire 
The  lily  and  rose,  that  neither  sow'd  nor  spun. 


130  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [xcix 

What  neat  repast  shall  feast  us,  light  and  choice, 
Of  Attic  taste,  with  wine,  whence  we  may  rise 
To  hear  the  lute  well  touch'd,  or  artful  voice 
Warble  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  air? 
5  He  who  of  those  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 
To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 

/.  Milton 


TO  CYRIACK  SKINNER 

Cyriack,  whose  grandsire,  on  the  royal  bench 
Of  British  Themis,  with  no  mean  applause 
Pronounced,  and  in  his  volumes  taught,  our  laws, 
Which  others  at  their  bar  so  often  wrench; 
5  To-day  deep  thoughts  resolve  with  me  to  drench 
In  mirth,  that  after  no  repenting  draws; 
Let  Euclid  rest,  and  Archimedes  pause, 
And  what  the  Swede  intend,  and  what  the  Frencn. 
To  measure  life  learn  thou  betimes,  and  know 
10  Toward  solid  good  what  leads  the  nearest  way; 
For  other  things  mild  Heaven  a  time  ordains, 
And  disapproves  that  care,  though  wise  in  show, 
That  with  superfluous  burden  loads  the  day. 
And,  when  God  sends  a  cheerful  hour,  refrains. 

J.  Milton 


ci 
A  HYMN  IN  PRAISE  OF  NEPTUNE 

Or  Neptune's  empire  let  us  sing, 
At  whose  command  the  waves  obey; 
To  whom  the  rivers  tribute  pay, 
Down  the  high  mountains  sliding; 
To  whom  the  scaly  nation  yields 
Homage  for  the  crystal  fields 
Wherein  they  dwell; 


cii]  Book  Second  131 

And  every  sea-god  pays  a  gem 
Yearly  out  of  his  watery  cell, 
To  deck  great  Neptune's  diadem. 

The  Tritons  dancing  in  a  ring, 
i;       Before  his  palace  gates  do  make 
The  water  with  their  echoes  quake, 
Like  the  great  thunder  sounding: 
The  sea-nymphs  chaunt  their  accents  shrill, 
And  the  Syrens  taught  to  kill 
10  With  their  sweet  voice, 

Make  every  echoing  rock  reply, 
Unto  their  gentle  murmuring  noise, 
The  praise  of  Neptune's  empery. 

T.  Campion. 


HYMN  TO  DIANA 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair. 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep. 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 
5  Hesperus  entreats  thy  light; 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 
10  Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close: 

Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver; 
15  Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever: 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night. 
Goddess  excellently  bright! 

B.  Jonson 


132  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ciii 


WISHES  FOR  THE  SUPPOSED  MISTRESS 

Whoe'er  she  be, 

That  not  impossible  She 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me; 


Where'er  she  lie, 
' 


ere'er  se     e, 

Lock'd  up  from  mortal  eye 
In  shady  leaves  of  destiny: 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  Fate  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  tread  our  earth; 

10       Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine: 

—Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 
Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 
15       And  be  ye  call'd,  my  absent  kisses. 

I  wish  her  beauty 
That  owes  not  all  its  duty 
To  gaudy  tire,  or  glist'ring  shoe-tie: 

Something  more  than 
•20       Taffata  or  tissue  can, 

Or  rampant  feather,  or  rich  fan. 

A  face  that's  best 

By  its  own  beauty  drest, 

And  can  alone  commend  the  rest: 

25       A  face  made  up 

Out  of  no  other  shop 

Than  what  Nature's  white  hand  sets  ope. 

Sidneian  showers 
Of  sweet  discourse,  whose  powers 
30       Can  crown  old  Winter's  head  with  flowers. 


ciii]  Book  Second  133 

Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  day's  forehead  bright 

Or  give  down  to  the  wings  of  night. 

Soft  silken  hours, 
5       Open  suns,  shady  bowers; 

'Bove  all,  nothing  within  that  lowers. 

Days,  that  need  borrow 

Xo  part  of  their  good  morrow 

From  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow: 

10       Days,  that  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night. 

Life,  that  dares  send 
A  challenge  to  his  end, 
15       And  when  it  comes,  say,  'Welcome,  friend.' 

I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes;  and  I  wish — no  more. 

Now,  if  Time  knows 
20       That  Her,  whose  radiant  brows 

Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vowsr 

Her  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see: 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  She. 

25       'Tis  She,  and  here 

Lo!  I  unclothe  and  clear 
My  wishes'  cloudy  character. 

Such  worth  as  this  is 
Shall  fix  my  flying  wishes, 
30       And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

Let  her  full  glory, 

My  fancies,  fly  before  ye; 

Be  ye  my  fictions: — but  her  story. 

R.  Crashaw 


134  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [civ 


THE  GREAT  ADVENTURER 

Over  the  mountains 
And  over  the  waves, 
Under  the  fountains 
And  under  the  graves; 
6  Under  floods  that  are  deepest, 

Which  Neptune  obey; 
Over  rocks  that  are  steepest 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Where  there  is  no  place 
10  For  the  glow-worm  to  lie; 

Where  there  is  no  space 

For  receipt  of  a  fly; 

Where  the  midge  dares  not  venture 

Lest  herself  fast  she  lay; 
15  If  love  come,  he  will  enter 

And  soon  find  out  his  way. 

You  may  esteem  him 
A  child  for  his  might; 
Or  you  may  deem  him 
20  A  coward  from  his  flight; 

But  if  she  whom  love  doth  honour 
Be  conceal'd  from  the  day, 
Set  a  thousand  guards  upon  her, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

25  Some  think  to  lose  him 

By  having  him  confined; 

And  some  do  suppose  him, 

Poor  thing,  to  be  blind; 

But  if  ne'er  so  close  ye  wall  him, 
30  Do  the  best  that  you  may, 

Blind  love,  if  so  ye  call  him, 

Will  find  out  his  way. 


cv]  Book  Second  135 

You  may  train  the  eagle 
To  stoop  to  your  fist; 
Or  you  may  inveigle 
The  phoenix  of  the  east; 
5  The  lioness,  ye  may  move  her 

To  give  o'er  her  prey; 
But  you'll  ne'er  stop  a  lover: 
He  will  find  out  his  way. 

Anon. 


THE  PICTURE  OF  LITTLE  T.  C.  IN  A 
PROSPECT  OF  FLOWERS 

See  with  what  simplicity 
This  nymph  begins  her  golden  days! 
In  the  green  grass  she  loves  to  lie, 
And  there  with  her  fair  aspect  tames 
5  The  wilder  flowers,  and  gives  them  names; 

But  only  with  the  roses  plays, 

And  them  does  tell 
What  colours  best  become  them,  and  what  smell. 

Who  can  foretell  for  what  high  cause 
10  This  darling  of  the  Gods  was  born? 

Yet  this  is  she  whose  chaster  laws 
The  wanton  Love  shall  one  day  fear. 
And,  under  her  command  severe, 
See  his  bow  broke,  and  ensigns  torn, 
15  Happy  who  can 

Appease  this  virtuous  enemy  of  man! 

O  then  let  me  in  time  compound 
And  parley  with  those  conquering  eyes, 
Ere  they  have  tried  their  force  to  \vound; 
20  Ere  with  their  glancing  wheels  they  drive 

In  triumph  over  hearts  that  strive, 
And  them  that  yield  but  more  despise: 

Let  me  be  laid, 
Where  I  may  see  the  glories  from  some  shade. 


136  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cv 

Mean  time,  whilst  every  verdant  thing 
Itself  does  at  thy  beauty  charm, 
Reform  the  errors  of  the  Spring; 
Make  that  the  tulips  may  have  share 
5       Of  sweetness,  seeing  they  are  fair, 
And  roses  of  their  thorns  disarm; 

But  most  procure 
That  violets  may  a  longer  age  endure. 

But  O  young  beauty  of  the  woods, 
10       Whom  Nature  courts  with  fruits  and  flowers, 
Gather  the  flowers,  but  spare  the  buds; 
Lest  FLORA,  angry  at  thy  crime 
To  kill  her  infants  in  their  prime, 
Should  quickly  make  th'  example  yours; 
15  And  ere  we  see — - 

Nip  in  the  blossom — all  our  hopes  and  thee. 

A.  Marvell 


CHILD  AND  MAIDEN 

Ah,  Chloris!  could  I  now  but  sit 

As  unconcern'd  as  when 
Your  infant  beauty  could  beget 

No  happiness  or  pain! 
When  I  the  dawn  used  to  admire, 

And  praised  the  coming  day, 
I  little  thought  the  rising  fire 

Would  take  my  rest  away. 

Your  charms  in  harmless  childhood  lay 

Like  metals  in  a  mine; 
Age  from  no  face  takes  more  away 

Than  youth  conceal 'd  in  thine. 
But  as  your  charms  insensibly 

To  their  perfection  prest, 
So  love  as  unperceived  did  fly, 

And  center'd  in  my  breast. 


Book  Second  137 

My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew, 

\\hile  Cupid  at  my  heart, 
Still  as  his  mother  favour'd  you, 

Threw  a  new  flaming  dart: 
Each  gloried  in  their  wanton  part; 

To  make  a  lover,  he 
Employ'd  the  utmost  of  his  art — 

To  make  a  beauty,  she. 

Sir  C.  Sedley 


CONSTANCY 

I  cannot  change  as  others  do, 

Though  you  unjustly  scorn, 
Since  that  poor  swain  that  sighs  for  you, 

For  you  alone  was  born; 
No,  Phyllis,  no,  your  heart  to  move 

A  surer  way  I'll  try, — 
And  to  revenge  my  slighted  love, 

Will  still  love  on,  and  die. 

When,  kill'd  with  grief,  Amintas  lies, 

And  you  to  mind  shall  call 
The  sighs  that  now  unpitied  rise, 

The  tears  that  vainly  fall, 
That  welcome  hour  that  ends  his  smart 

Will  then  begin  your  pain, 
For  such  a  faithful  tender  heart 

Can  never  break  in  vain. 

J.  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester 


cvin 
COUNSEL  TO  GIRLS 

Gather  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying: 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 


138  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cviii 

The  glorious  Lamp  of  Heaven,  the  Sun, 

The  higher  he's  a-getting 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

5  That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 

When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 
But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times,  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time; 
10  And  while  ye  may,  go  marry: 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  for  ever  tarry. 

R.  Herrick 

cix 
TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE  WARS 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

5  True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 
A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 
10  As  you  too  shall  adore; 

I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much. 
Loved  I  not  Honour  more. 

Colonel  Lovelace 

ex 
ELIZABETH  OF  BOHEMIA 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 

That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light, 


cxi]  Book  Second  139 

You  common  people  of  the  skies, 
What  are  you,  when  the  Moon  shall  rise? 

You  curious  chanters  of  the  wood 

That  warble  forth  dame  Nature's  lays, 
5  Thinking  your  passions  understood 

By  your  weak  accents;  what's  your  praise 

When  Philomel  her  voice  doth  raise? 

You  violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known 
10  Like  the  proud  virgins  of  th»  year, 

As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own, — 
What  are  you,  when  the  Rose  is  blown? 

So  when  my  Mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind, 
15  By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  Queen, 

Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  design'd 
Th'  eclipse  and  glory  cf  her  kind? 

Sir  H.  Wotton 


cxi 
TO  THE  LADY  MARGARET  LEY 

Daughter  to  that  good  Earl,  once  President 
Of  England's  Council  and  her  Treasury, 
Who  lived  in  both,  unstain'd  with  gold  or  fee, 
And  left  them  both,  more  in  himself  content, 
5  Till  the  sad  breaking  of  that  Parliament 
Broke  him,  as  that  dishonest  victory 
At  Chaeroneia,  fatal  to  liberty, 
Kill'd  with  report  that  old  man  eloquent; — 
Though  later  born  than  to  have  known  the  days 
10  Wherein  your  father  flourish'd,  yet  by  you, 
Madam,  methinks  I  see  him  living  yet; 
So  well  your  words  his  noble  virtues  praise, 
That  all  both  judge  you  to  relate  them  true, 
And  to  possess  them,  honour'd  Margaret. 

J.  Milton 


140  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxii 


THE  TRUE  BEAUTY 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
Gentle  thoughts,  and  calm  desires. 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires: — 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

T.  Carew 


TO  DIANEME 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes 
Which  starlike  sparkle  in  their  skies; 
Nor  be  you  proud,  that  you  can  see 
All  hearts  your  captives;  yours,  yet  free: 
Be  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  hair 
Which  wantons  with  the  lovesick  air; 
Whenas  that  ruby  which  you  wear, 
Sunk  from  the  tip  of  your  soft  ear, 
Will  last  to  be  a  precious  stone 
When  all  your  world  of  beauty's  gone. 

R.  Herrick 


Love  in  thy  youth,  fair  Maid,  be  wise; 

Old  Time  will  make  thee  colder, 
And  though  each  morning  new  arise 

Yet  we  each  day  grow  older 


cxv]  Book  Second  141 

Thou  as  Heaven  art  fair  and  young, 

Thine  eyes  like  twin  stars  shining; 
But  ere  another  day  be  sprung 
All  these  will  be  declining. 
5  Then  winter  comes  with  all  his  fears, 

And  all  thy  sweets  shall  borrow- 
Too  late  then  wilt  thou  shower  thy  tears, — • 
And  I  too  late  shall  sorrow! 

Anon. 


Go,  lovely  Rose! 
Tell  her,  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 

5  How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that 's  young 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
\Q          Thou  must  have  uncommerided  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired: 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
l&  And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die!  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee: 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
20  That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair! 

E.  Waller 


142  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxvi 


TO  CELIA 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  wither' d  be; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear. 

Not  of  itself  but  thee! 

B.  Jonson 


CHERRY-RIPE 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 

Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow; 

A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  grow; 

There  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy, 

Till  Cherry-Ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  rose-buds  fill'd  with  snow: 
Yet  them  no  peer  nor  prince  may  buy, 
Till  Cherry-Ripe  themselves  do  cry. 


cxviii]  Book  Second  143 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still; 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do"  stand, 
Threat'ning  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 

All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 
5       These  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 
Till  Cherry-Ripe  themselves  do  cry! 

Anon. 


CORINNA'S  MAYING 

Get  up,  get  up  fo*r  shame!    The  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 

See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 

Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air: 
5  Get  up,  sweet  Slug-a-bed,  and  see 

The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bow'd  toward  the  east, 
Above  an  hour  since;  yet  you  not  drest, 

Nay!  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed? 
10  When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 

And  sung  their  thankful  hymns:  'tis  sin, 

Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, — 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day, 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch-in  May. 

15  Rise;  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 

To  come  forth,  like  the  Spring-time,  fresh  and  green. 
And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown,  or  hair: 
Fear  not;  the  leaves  will  strew 
20  Gems  in  abundance  upon  you: 

Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept: 
Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night: 
25  And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.    Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in  praying: 
Few  beads  are  best,  when  once  we  go  a  Maying. 


144  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxviii 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come;  and  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street;  each  street  a  park 

Made  green,  and  trimm'd  with  trees:  see  how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
5  Or  branch:  Each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this, 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove; 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street, 
10          And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see't? 

Come,  we'll  abroad:  and  let's  obey 

The  proclamation  made  for  May: 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

15  There's  not  a  budding  boy,  or  girl,  this  day, 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 
Some  have  despatch'd  their  cakes  and  cream, 
20  Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream: 

And  some  have  wept,  and  woo'd,  and  plighted  troth; 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth: 
Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even: 
25  Many  a  glance  too  has  been  sent 

From  out  the  eye,  Love's  firmament: 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This  night,  and  locks  pick'd: — Yet  we're  not  a  May- 
ing. 

— Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime; 
30  And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time! 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short;  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun: — 
35  And  as  a  vapour,  or  a  drop  of  rain 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again: 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade; 


cxx]  Book  Second  145 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 
Lies  drown'd  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna!  come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

R.  Herrick 


THE  POETRY  OF  DRESS 


A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 
Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness: — 
A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 
Into  a  fine  distraction, — 
An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 
Enthrals  the  crimson  stomacher, — 
A  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 
Ribbands  to  flow  confusedly, — 
A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 
In  the  tempestuous  petticoat, — 
A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 
I  see  a  wild  civility, — 
Do  more  bewitch  me,  tvan  when  art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

R.  Herrick 


cxx 

I 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes 

Then,  then  (methinks)  how  sweetly  flows 

That  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes  and  see 
That  brave  vibration  each  way  free; 
O  how  that  glittering  taketh  me! 

R.  Herrick 


146  Palgrave's  Golden  Trsasury  [cxxi 

CXXI 

3 

My  Love  in  her  attire  doth  shew  her  wit, 

It  doth  so  well  become  her: 
For  every  season  she  hath  dressings  fit, 

For,  Winter,  Spring,  and  Summer. 
5  No  beauty  she  doth  miss 

When  all  her  robes  are  on: 
But  Beauty's  self  she  is 
When  all  her  robes  are  gone. 

Anon. 

cxxn 
ON  A  GIRDLE 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind: 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

5  It  was  my  Heaven's  extremest  sphere, 

The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer: 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass!  and  yet  there 
10  Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair: 

Give  me  but  what  this  ribband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  Sun  goes  round. 
E.  Waller 

CXXIII 

A  MYSTICAL  ECSTASY 

E'en  liKe  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks, 

That  wash  the  pebbles  with  their  wanton  streams, 

And  having  ranged  and  search' d  a  thousand  nooks. 
Meet  both  at  length  in  silver-breasted  Thames, 
5  Where  in  a  greater  current  they  conjoin: 

So  I  my  Best-Beloved's  am;  so  He  is  mine. 


cxxiv]  Book  Second  147 

E'en  so  we  met;  and  after  long  pursuit, 

E'en  so  we  joined;  we  both  became  entire; 

No  need  for  either  to  renew  a  suit, 

For  I  was  flax  and  he  was  flames  of  fire: 
5  Our  firm-united  souls  did  more  than  twine; 

So  I  my  Best-Beloved's  am;  so  He  is  mine. 

If  all  those  glittering  Monarchs  that  command 

The  servile  quarters  of  this  earthly  ball, 

Should  tender,  in  exchange,  their  shares  of  land, 

10  I  would  not  change  my  fortunes  for  them  all: 

Their  wealth  is  but  a  counter  to  my  coin: 
The  world's  but  theirs;  but  my  Beloved's  mine. 

F.  Quarles 


TO  ANTHEA  WHO  MAY  COMMAND  HIM 
ANY  THING 

Bid  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 

Thy  Protestant  to  be: 
Or  bid  me  love,  and  I  will  give 

A  loving  heart  to  thee. 

5  A  heart  as  soft,  a  heart  as  kind, 

A  heart  as  sound  and  free 
As  in  the  whole  world  thou  canst  find, 
That  heart  I'll  give  to  thee. 

Bid  that  heart  stay,  and  it  will  stay, 
10  To  honour  thy  decree: 

Or  bid  it  languish  quite  away, 
And't  shall  do  so  for  thee. 

Bid  me  to  weep,  and  I  will  weep 

While  I  have  eyes  to  see: 
15  And  having  none,  yet  I  will  keep 

A  heart  to  weep  for  thee. 

Bid  me  despair,  and  I'll  despair, 

'Under  that  cypress  tree: 
Or  bid  me  die,  and  I  will  dare 
20  E'en  Death,  to  die  for  thee. 


148  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  fcxxiv 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  love,  my  heart, 

The  very  eyes  of  me, 
And  hast  command  of  every  part. 

To  live  and  die  for  thee. 

R.  Herrick 


Love  not  me  for  comely  grace, 
For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 
Nor  for  any  outward  part, 
No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart, — 
5  For  those  may  fail,  or  turn  to  ill, 

So  thou  and  I  shall  sever: 
Keep  therefore  a  true  woman's  eye, 
And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why — 

So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
10  To  doat  upon  me  ever! 

Anon. 


Not,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am 

Or  better  than  the  rest; 
For  I  would  change  each  hour,  like  them. 

Were  not  my  heart  at  rest. 

5  But  I  am  tied  to  very  thee 

By  every  thought  I  have; 
Thy  face  I  only  care  to  see, 
Thy  heart  I  only  crave. 

All  that  in  woman  is  adored 
10  In  thy  dear  self  I  find — 

For  the  whole  sex  can  but  afford 
The  handsome  and  the  kind. 

Why  then  should  I  seek  further  store, 

And  still  make  love  anew? 

15  When  change  itself  can  give  no  more, 

'Tis  easy  to  be  true. 

Sir  C.  Sedley 


cxxvii]  Book  Second  149 


TO  ALTHEA  FROM  PRISON 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wines 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates) 
5  When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fetter'd  to  her  eye, 
The  Gods  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 
10  ,  With  no  allaying  Thames, 

Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free — 
15  Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  (like  committed  linnets),  I 
With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 

The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty 
20  And  glories  of  my  King; 

When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 
He  is,  how  great  should  be, 

Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

25  Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 
30  And  in  my  soul  am  free, 

Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 
Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Colonel  Lovelace 


150  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxxviii 


TO  LUCASTA,  GOING  BEYOND  THE  SEAS 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be 

Away  from  thee; 
Or  that  when  I  am  gone 
You  or  I  were  alone; 
5  Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I  crave 

Pity  from  blustering  wind,  or  swallowing  wave. 

But  I'll  not  sigh  one  blast  or  gale 

To  swell  my  sail, 
Or  pay  a  tear  to  'suage 
10  The  foaming  blue-god's  rage; 

For  whether  he  will  let  me  pass 
Or  no,  I'm  still  as  happy  as  I  was. 

Though  seas  and  land  betwixt  us  both, 

Our  faith  and  troth, 
15  Like  separated  souls, 

All  time  and  space  controls: 
Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet 
Unseen,  unknown,  and  greet  as  Angels  greet. 

So  then  we  do  anticipate 
20  Our  after-fate, 

And  are  alive  i'  the  skies, 
If  thus  our.  lips  and  eyes 
Can  speak  like  spirits  unconfined 
In  Heaven,  their  earthy  bodies  left  behind. 

Colonel  Lovelace 


cxxix 
ENCOURAGEMENTS  TO  A  LOVER 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale? 
Will,  if  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale? 


Book  Second  151 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame!  this  will  not  move. 

This  cannot  take  her; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  D— 1  take  her! 

Sir  J.  Suckling 


A  SUPPLICATION 

Awake,  awake,  my  Lyre! 
And  tell  thy  silent  master's  humble  tale 

In  sounds  that  may  prevail;  > 
Sounds  that  gentle  thoughts  inspire: 
5  Though  so  exalted  she 

And  I  so  lowly  be 
Tell  her,  such  different  notes  make  all  thy  harmony. 

Hark,  how  the  strings  awake! 

And,  though  the  moving  hand  approach  not  near, 
10  Themselves  with  awful  fear 

A  kind  of  numerous  trembling  make. 
Now  all  thy  forces  try; 
Now  all  thy  charms  apply; 
Revenge  upon  her  ear  the  conquests  of  her  eye. 

15          Weak  Lyre!  thy  virtue  sure 

Is  useless  here,  since  thou  art  only  found 

To  cure,  but  not  to  wound, 
And  she  to  wound,  but  not  to  cure. 

Too  weak  too  wilt  thou  prove 
20  My  passion  to  remove; 

Physic  to  other  ills,  thou'rt  nourishment  to  Love. 


152  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxxx 

Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  Lyre! 
For  thou  canst  never  tell  my  humble  tale 

In  sounds  that  will  prevail, 
Nor  gentle  thoughts  in  her  inspire; 
5  All  thy  vain  mirth  lay  by, 

Bid  thy  strings  silent  lie, 

Sleep,  sleep,  again,  my  Lyre,  and  let  thy  master  die 

A.  Cowley 


THE  MANLY  HEART 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman's  fair? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 
5  Be  she  fairer  than  the  day 

Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May — 
If  she  think  not  well  of  me 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 

Shall  my  silly  heart  be  pined 
10  'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind; 

Or  a  well  disposed  nature 

Joined  with  a  lovely  feature? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 

Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 
15  If  she  be  not  so  to  me 

What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love? 
Or  her  well-deservings  known 
20  Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own? 

Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  Best; 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be? 


cxxxii]  Book  Second  153 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 

Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die? 

She  that  bears  a  noble  mind 

If  not  outward  helps  she  find, 
5  Thinks  what  with  them  he  would  do 

Who  without  them  dares  her  woo; 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be? 

Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 
10  I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair; 

If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve; 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go; 
15  For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 

What  care  I  for  whom  she  be? 

G.  Withe> 

CXXXII 

MELANCHOLY 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 
Wherein  you  spend  your  folly: 
There's  nought  in  this  life  sweet 
5  If  man  were  wise  to  see't, 

But  only  melancholy, 
O  sweetest  Melancholy! 
Welcome,  folded  arms,  and  fix6d  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
10       A  look  that's  fasten'd  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chain'd  up  without  a  sound! 
Fountain-heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
1£       Are  warmly  housed  save  bats  and  owls! 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan! 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon; 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley; 
Nothing's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy. 

J.  Fletcher 


154  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 


FORSAKEN 

O  waly  waly  up  the  bank, 

And  waly  waly  down  the  brae, 
And  waly  waly  yon  burn-side 

Where  I  and  my  Love  wont  to  gae! 
5  I  leant  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

I  thought  it  was  a  trusty  tree; 
But  first  it  bow'd,  and  syne  it  brak. 

Sae  my  true  Love  did  lichtly  me. 

O  waly  waly,  but  love  be  bonny 
10  A  little  time  while  it  is  new; 

But  when  'tis  auld,  it  waxeth  cauld 

And  fades  awa'  like  morning  dew 

O  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  head? 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair? 
15-  For  my  true  Love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he'll  never  loe  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur-seat  shall  be  my  bed; 

The  sheets  shall  ne'er  be  prest  by  me: 
Saint  Anton's  well  sail  be  my  drink, 
20  Since  my  true  Love  has  forsaken  me. 

Marti'mas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  aff  the  tree? 
O  gentle  Death,  when  wilt  thou  come? 

For  of  my  life  I  am  wearie. 

25  'Tis  not  the  frost,  that  freezes  fell, 

Nor  blawing  snaw's  inclemencie; 
'Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry, 

But  my  Love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
When  we  came  in  by  Glasgow  town 
30  We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see; 

My  Love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 
And  7   itiysell  in  cramasie. 


cxxxiv]  Book  Second  155 

But  had  I  wist,  before  I  kist, 

That  love  had  been  sae  ill  to  win; 
I  had  lockt  my  heart  in  a  case  of  gowd 

And  pinn'd  it  with  a  siller  pin. 
6          And,  O!  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee, 
And  I  mysell  were  dead  and  gane, 

And  the  green  grass  gro wing  over  me! 
Anon, 


Upon  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits 

And  sucks  upon  my  breast; 

Meantime  his  love  maintains  my  life 

And  gives  my  sense  her  rest. 
Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy! 

When  thou  hast  taken  thy  repast, 

Repose,  my  babe,  on  me; 

So  may  thy  mother  and  thy  nurse 

Thy  cradle  also  be. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy  I 

I  grieve  that  duty  doth  not  work 

All  that  my  wishing  would, 

Because  I  would  not  be  to  thee 

But  in  the  best  I  should. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy! 

Yet  as  I  am,  and  as  I  may, 

I  must  and  will  be  thine, 

Though  all  too  little  for  thy  self 

Vouchsafing  to  be  mine. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy! 

Anon. 


166  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxxxv 


FAIR  HELEN 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies; 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea! 

5       Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succor  me! 

0  think  na  but  my  heart  was  sair 

10      When  my  Love  dropt  down  and  spak  nae  mairl 

1  laid  her  down  wi'  meikle  care 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

As  I  went  down  the  water-side, 
.  None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
15       None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea; 

I  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
20  For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare! 
I'll  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair 
Until  the  day  I  die. 

25  O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies  I 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 

Says,  'Haste  and  come  to  me!'"  . 

O  Helen  fair!  O  Helen  chaste! 
30      If  I  were  with  thee,  I  were  blest, 

Where  thou  lies  low  and  takes  thy  rest 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 


cxxxvij  tijok  Second  157 

I  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

*       I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies; 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 
Since  my  Love  died  for  me, 

Anon, 


cxxxvi 
THE  TWA  CORBIES 

As  i  was  walking  all  alane 
1  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane; 
The  tane  unto  the  t'other  say, 
'Where  sail  we  gang  and  dine  today?' 

' — In  behint  yon  auld  fail  dyke, 
I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  Knight; 
And  naebody  kens  that  he  lies  there, 
But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  lady  fair, 

'His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild-fowl  hame, 
His  lady's  ta'en  another  mate, 
So  we  may  mak  our  dinner  sweet. 

'Ye '11  sit  on  his  white  hause-bane, 
And  I'll  pick  out  his  bonnie  blue  een: 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 
We'll  theek  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 

'Mony  a  one  for  him  makes  mane, 
But  nane  sail  ken  where  he  is  gane; 
O'er  his  white  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair.' 

Anon, 


158  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxxxvii 


CXXXVH 

OAT  THE  DEATH  OF  MR   WILLIAM  HERVEY 

It  was  a  dismal  and  a  fearful  night, — 

Scarce  could  the  Morn  drive  on  th'  unwilling  light, 

When  sleep,  death's  image,  left  my  troubled  breast, 

By  something  liker  death  possest. 
5  My  eyes  with  tears  did  uncommanded  flow, 

And  on  my  soul  hung  the  dull  weight 

Of  some  intolerable  fate. 
What  bell  was  that?  Ah  me!  Too  much  I  knowl 

My  sweet  companion,  and  my  gent'e  peer, 

10  Why  hast  thou  left  me  thus  unkindly  here, 

Thy  end  for  ever,  and  my  life,  to  moan? 

O  thou  hast  left  me  all  alone! 
Thy  soul  and  body,  when  death's  agony 
Besieged  around  thy  noble  heart, 
15  Did  not  with  more  reluctance  part 

Than  I,  my  dearest  friend,  do  part  from  thee. 

Ye  fields  of  Cambridge,  our  dear  Cambridge,  say, 
Have  ye  not  seen  us  walking  every  day? 
Was  there  a  tree  about  which  did  not  know 
20  The  love  betwixt  us  two? 

Henceforth,  ye  gentle  trees,  for  ever  fade, 
Or  your  sad  branches  thicker  join, 
And  into  darksome  shades  combine, 
Dark  as  the  grave  wherein  my  friend  is  laid. 

25  Large  was  his  soul;  as  large  a  soul  as  e'er 
Submitted  to  inform  a  body  here; 
High  as  the  place  'twas  shortly  in  Heaven  to  have, 

But  low  and  humble  as  his  grave; 
So  high  that  all  the  virtues  there  did  come 
30  As  to  the  chiefest  seat 

Conspicuous,  and  great; 
So  low  that  for  me  too  it  made  a  room. 


cxxxviii]  Book  Second  159 

Knowledge  he  only  sought,  and  so  soon  caught, 
As  if  for  him  knowledge  had  rather  sought; 
Nor  did  more  learning  ever  crowded  lie 

In  such  a  short  mortality. 
5  Whene'er  the  skilful  youth  discoursed  or  writ, 

Still  did  the  notions  throng 

About  his  eloquent  tongue; 
Nor  could  his  ink  flow  faster  than  his  wit. 

His  mirth  was  the  pure  spirits  of  various  wit, 
10  Yet  never  did  his  God  or  friends  forget. 

And  when  deep  talk  and  wisdom  came  in  view, 

Retired,  and  gave  to  them  their  due. 
For  the  rich  help  of  books  he  always  took, 

Though  Ms  own  searching  mind  before 
15  Was  so  with  notions  written  o'er, 

As  if  wise  Nature  had  made  that  her  book. 

With  as  much  zeal,  devotion,  piety, 
He  always  lived,  as  other  saints  do  die. 
Still  with  his  soul  severe  account  he  kept, 
20  Weeping  all  debts  out  ere  he  slept. 

Then  down  in  peace  and  innocence  he  lay, 
Like  the  sun's  laborious  light, 
Which  still  in  water  sets  at  night, 
Unsullied  with  his  journey  of  the  day. 

A.  Cowley 


CXXXVIII 

FRIENDS  IX  PARADISE 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light! 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear: — 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest, 
After  the  sun's  remove. 


160 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury          [cxxxviii 


I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days: 

My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 

Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

5  O  holy  Hope!  and  high  Humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above! 

These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  shew'd  them  me, 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death!  the  jewel  of  the  just, 
10  Shining  no  where,  but  in  the  dark; 

What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark! 

He  that  hath  found    some  fledged  bird's  nest,  may 

know 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown; 
15  But  what  fair  well  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  Angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 

Call  to  the  soul,  when  man  doth  sleep; 
So    some    strange    thoughts    transcend    our    wonted 

themes, 
20  And  into  glory  peep. 

H.  Vaughan 


cxxxix 
TO  BLOSSOMS 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast? 
Your  date  is  not  so  past, 

But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhi'e 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 


cxl]  Book  Second  161 

What,  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good-night? 
'Twas  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth 
5  Merely  to  show  your  worth, 

And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave: 
10  And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride 

Like  you,  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  gra^ 

R.  Herrick 


TO  DAFFODILS 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon: 
As  yet  the  early-rising  Sun 

Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 
5  Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song; 
And,  having  pray'd  together,  we 
10  Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  Spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 

As  you,  or  any  thing. 
15  We  die, 

As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away 

Like  to  the  Summer's  rain; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew 
20  Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

^R.  Herrwk 


162  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxli 


THE  GIRL  DESCRIBES  HER  FAWN 


With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first 

I  it  at  my  own  fingers  nursed; 

And  as  it  grew,  so  every  day 

It  wax'd  more  white  and  sweet  than  they- 

It  had  so  sweet  a  breath!  and  oft 

I  blush'd  to  see  its  foot  more  soft 

And  white, — shall  I  say, — than  my  hand? 

Nay,  any  lady's  of  the  land! 


It  is  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 
10  'Twas  on  those  little  silver  feet: 

With  what  a  pretty  skipping  grace 
It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race: — • 
And  when  't  had  left  me  far  away 
'Twould  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay: 
15  For  it  was  nimbler  much  than  hinds, 

And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 


I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 

But  so  with  roses  overgrown 

And  lilies,  that  you  would  it 
2C  To  be  a  little  wilderness. 

And  all  the  spring-time  of  the  year 

It  only  loved  to  be  there. 

Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 

Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie: 
25  Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 

Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes: — 

For  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shade 

It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid. 


cxlii]  Book  Second  163 

rn  the  roses  it  would  feed, 
il  its  lips  e'en  seem'd  to  bleed: 
And  then  to  me  'twould  boldly  trip. 
And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 
5  But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 

On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill, 
And  its  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 
In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold: — 
Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 
10  Lilies  without — roses  within. 

4.  Marvell 

CXLII 

THOUGHTS  IN  A  GARDEN 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays, 
And  their  uncessant  labours  see 
Crown' d  from  some  single  herb  or  tree, 
5       Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  Repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
10       And  Innocence  thy  sister  dear! 

Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 

In  busy  companies  of  men: 

Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 

Only  among  the  plants  will  grow: 
15       Society  is  all  but  rude 

To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 
20       Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name: 
Little,  alas,  they  know  or  heed 
How  far  these  beauties  hers  exceed! 
Fair  trees!  Wheres'e'er  your  barks  I  wound, 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 


3.64  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxlii 

When  we  have  run  our  passions'  heat 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat  :* 
The  gods,  who  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race; 
5      Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so 

Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead! 
10       Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head; 

The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 

Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine; 

The  nectarine  and  curious  peach 

Into  my  hand  themselves  do  reach; 
15       Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 

Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness; 
The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
20       Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas; 
Annihilating  all  that's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

25       Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding 'foot 

Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 

Casting  the  body's  vest  aside 

My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide; 

There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
30       Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 

And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 

Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  Garden-state 
While  man  there  walk'd  without  a  mate: 
35       After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 

What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there: 


cxliii]  Book  Second  165 

Two  paradises  'twere  in  one, 
To  live  in  Paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 

Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new! 
£       Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 

Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  rur  • 

And,  as  it  works,  th'  industrious  bee 

Computes  it's  time  as  well  as  we. 

How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
10       Be  reckon'd,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers! 

A.  Marveil 


FORTUNATI  NIMIUM 

Jack  and  Joan,  they  think  no  ill. 
But  loving  live,  and  merry  still; 
Do  their  week-day's  work,  and  pray 
Devoutly  on  the  holy-day: 
5       Skip  and  trip  it  on  the  green, 

And  help  to  choose  the  Summer  Queen.. 
Lash  out  at  a  country  feast 
Their  silver  penny  with  the  best. 

Well  can  they  judge  of  nappy  ale, 
20       And  tell  at  large  a  winter  tale; 
Climb  up  to  the  apple  loft, 
And  turn  the  crabs  till  they  be  soft. 
Tib  is  all  the  father's  joy, 
And  little  Tom  the  mother's  boy: — 
15       All  their  pleasure  is,  Content, 

And  care,  to  pay  their  yearly  rent. 

Joan  can  call  by  name  her  cows 
And  deck  her  windows  with  green  boughs: 
She  can  wreaths  and  tutties  make, 
20       And  trim  with  plums  a  bridal  cake. 
Jack  knows  what  brings  gain  or  loss, 
And  his  long  flail  can  stoutly  toss: 
Makes  the  hedge  which  others  break, 
And  ever  thinks  what  he  doth  ppeak. 


166  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxliii 

— Now,  you  courtly  dames  and  knights, 
That  study  only  strange  delights, 
Though  you  scorn  the  homespun  gray, 
And  revel  in  your  rich  array; 
5       Though  your  tongues  dissemble  deep 
And  can  your  heads  from  danger  keep; 
Yet,  for  all  your  pomp  and  train, 
Securer  lives  the  silly  swain! 

T.  Campion 


L' ALLEGRO 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn 

'Mongst    horrid    shapes,    and    shrieks,    and    sights 

unholy! 
5  Find  out  some  uncouth  cell 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings 
And  the  night-raven  sings; 

There  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-brow'd  rocks 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 
10       In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free, 

In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 

And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 

Whom  lovely  Venus  at  a  birth 
15  With  two  sister  Graces  more 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore; 

Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 

The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring 

Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 
20          As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying — 

There 'on  beds  of  violets  blue 

And  fresh-blown  roses  wash'd  in  dew 

FilFd  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 

So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 


cxliv]  book  Second       .  167 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  jollity, 
Quips,  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles 
ft  Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  Ms  sides: — 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go 

10  On  the  light  fantastic  toe; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honour  due 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 

15  To  live  with  her  and  live  with  thee 

In  unreproved  pleasures  free; 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 

20  Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 

Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow 
Through  the  sweetbriar,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine: 

25          While  the  cock  with  lively  din 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
•  And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before: 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 

30  Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill: 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 

35  Right  against  the  eastern  gate 

Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state 
Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight; 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 

40  Whistles  o'er  the  furrow'd  land, 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 


138  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxliv 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures 

Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures; 
5  Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray; 

Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest; 

Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 
10  Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide; 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosom'd  high  in  tufted  trees, 

Where  perhaps  some  Beauty  lies, 

The  Cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 
15  Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 

From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,  met, 

Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 

Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes 
20          Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses; 

And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 

To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead. 
25  Sometimes  with  secure  delight 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid, 
30  Dancing  in  the  chequer'd  shade; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sun-shine  holyday, 

Till  the  live-long  day-light  fail: 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 
35  With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

How  Faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat: — 

She  was  pinch'd,  and  pull'd,  she  said; 

And  he,  by  Friar's  lantern  led; 

Tells  how  the  drudging  Goblin  sweat 
40  To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  thresh'd  the  corn 


'  div]  Book  Second  169 

That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end; 

Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 

And,  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength; 
5       .    And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lull'd  asleep. 

Tower'd  cities  please  us  then 
10  And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 

In  weeds  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold, 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
'5  Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace,  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 

And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 
20  With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry; 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream, 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 
25  Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 
And  ever  against  eating  cares 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs 

Married  to  immortal  verse, 
30  Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce 

In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 
35  Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony; 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 

From  golden  slumber,  on  a  bed 

Of  heap'd  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
40  Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained  Eurydice. 


170  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxliv 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

J.  Milton 


CXLV 
IL  PENSEROSO 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred: 
How  little  you  bestead 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys! 
5  Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 
10       The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 

But  hail,  thou  goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 

15          And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 

O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starr'd  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 

20  To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 

The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended; 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended: 
Thee  bright-hair' d  Vesta,  long  of  yore, 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore; 

25  His  daughter  she;  in  Saturn's  reign 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain: 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 

30          While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 


cxlv]  Book  Second  171 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 

Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain 

Following  with  majestic  train, 
5  And  sable  stole  of  Cipres  lawn 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn: 

Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

"With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
10  Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes: 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 

With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast: 
15  And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet, 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 
'  And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing: 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure 
20  That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure: — 

But  first  and  chief est,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 

The  cherub  Contemplation; 
25  And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song 

In  her  sweetest  saddest  plight 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 
30  Gently  o'er  the  accustom'd  oak. 

— Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft,  the  woods  among 

I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song; . 
35  And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 

To  behold  the  wandering  Moon 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
40  Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way, 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 


172  Palgrwe's  Golden  Treasury  [cxlv 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground 

I  hear  the  far-off  Curfeu  sound 

Over  some  wide-water'd  shore, 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar: 
5  Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom; 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 
10          Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 
Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
15  Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear 

With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 

The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 
20  Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook: 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 

With  planet,  or  with  element. 
25  Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  scepter' d  pall  come  sweeping  by, 

Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine: 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
30          Ennobled  hath  the  buskin'd  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 

Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower, 

Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 

Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
35  Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek 

And  made  Hell  grant  what  Love  did  seekj 

Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
40          And  who  had  Canace"  to  wife 

That  own'd  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass; 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 


cxiv]  Vook  Second  173 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride. 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung 
Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung, 
6  Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 

Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 
Not  trick'd  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont 

10  With  the  Attic  Boy  to  hunt, 

But  kercheft  in  a  comely  cloud 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 
Or  usher' d  with  a  shower  still, 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 

15  Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves 

With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

20  And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 
Where  the  rude  axe,  with  heaved  stroke, 
WTas  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallow' d  haunt. 

25  There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 
Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 
While  the  bee  with  honey' d  thigh 
That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

30  And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep 
Entice  the  dewy-f Bather* d  Sleep; 
And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 
Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 

35  Of  lively  portraiture  display'd, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid: 
And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 
Above,  about,  or  underneath, 
Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  mortals  good, 

40  Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pala, 


174  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxlv 

And  love  the  high-embowe'd  roof, 

With  antique  pillars  massy  proof, 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light. 
5          There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  below 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

10          And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 
And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 

Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 

The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell 

Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
15  Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew; 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 
20          And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

J.  Milton 


SONG  OF  THE  EMIGRANTS  IN  BERMUDA 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied. 
From  a  small  boat  that  row'd  along 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song. 
5  'What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 

That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 
Where  He  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks, 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
10  And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own? 

He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
Safe  from  the  storms,  and  prelate's  rage: 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  Spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything. 


cxlvii]  Book  Second 

And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
5  And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 

Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows: 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet; 
But  apples  plants  of  such  a  price, 

10  No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 

With  cedars  cho'sen  by  His  hand 
From  Lebanon  He  stores  the  land; 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 

15  He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 

The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast; 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  His  name. 
Oh!  let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt 

20  Till  it  arrive  at  Heaven's  vault, 

Which  thence  (perhaps)  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay!' 
—Thus  sung  they  in  the  English  boat 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note: 

25  And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 

With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

A.  Marvett 


CXLVII 
AT  A  SOLEMN  MUSIC 

Blest  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heaven's  joy, 
Sphere-born  harmonious  Sisters,  Voice  and  Verse! 
Wed  your  divine  sounds,  and  mixt  power  employ, 
Dead  things  with  inbreathed  sense  able  to  pierce; 
5  And  to  our  high-raised  phantasy  present 
That  undisturbed  Song  of  pure  concent 
Aye  sung  before  the  sapphi  re-colour' d  throne 
To  Him  that  sits  thereon. 


6  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxlvi: 

With  saintly  shout  and  solemn  jubilee; 
Where  the  bright  Seraphim  in  burning  row 
Their  loud  uplifted  angel-trumpets  blow; 
And  the  Cherubic  host  in  thousand  quires 
Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires, 
With  those  just  spirits  that  wear  victorious  palms, 

Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms 

Singing  everlastingly: 

That  we  on  Earth,  with  undiscording  voice 
May  rightly  answer  that  melodious  noise; 
As  once  we  did,  till  disproportion' d  sin 
Jarr'd  against  nature's  chime,  and  with  harsh  din 
Broke  the  fair  music  that  all  creatures  made 
To  their  great  Lord,  whose  love  their  motion  sway'd 
In  perfect  diapason,  whilst  they  stood 
In  first  obedience,  and  their  state  of  good. 
O  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  Song, 
And  keep  in  tune  with  Heaven,  till  God  ere  long 
To  His  celestial  consort  us  unite, 
To  live  with  Him,  and  sing  in  endless  morn  of  light! 

J.  Milton 


NOX  NOCTI  IN  DIG  AT  SCIENTIAM 

When  I  survey  the  bright 

Celestial  sphere: 

So  rich  with  jewels  hung,  that  night 
Doth  like  an  Ethiop  bride  appear; 

5  My  soul  her  wings  doth  spread, 

And  heaven-ward  flies, 
The  Almighty's  mysteries  to  read 
In  the  large  volumes  of  the  skies. 

For  the  bright  firmament 
X)  Shoots  forth  no  flame 

So  silent,  but  is  eloquent 
In  speaking  the  Creator's  name. 


cxlviii]  Book  Second  177 

No  unregarded  star 

Contracts  its  light 
Into  so  small  a  character, 
Removed  far  from  our  human  sight, 

5  But  if  we  steadfast  look, 

We  shall  discern 
In  it  as  in  some  holy  book, 
How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge  learn. 

It  tells  the  Conqueror, 
10  That  far-stretch'd  power 

Which  his  proud  dangers  traffic  for, 
Is  but  the  triumph  of  an  hour. 

That  from  the  farthest  North 

Some  nation  may 
15  Yet  undiscover'd  issue  forth, 

And  o'er  his  new-got  conquest  sway. 

Some  nation  yet  shut  in 

With  hills  of  ice, 

May  be  let  out  to  scourge  his  sin, 
20  Till  they  shall  equal  him  in  vice. 

And  then  they  likewise  shall 

Their  ruin  have; 

For  as  yourselves  your  Empires  fall, 
And  every  Kingdom  hath  a  grave. 

25  Thus  those  celestial  fires, 

Though  seeming  mute, 
The  fallacy  of  our  desires 
And  all  the  pride  of  life,  confute. 

For  they  have  watch'd  since  first 
30  The  World  had  birth: 

And  found  sin  in  itself  accursed, 
And  nothing  permanent  on  earth. 

W.  Habington 


i.78  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxlix 


HYMN  TO  DARKNESS 

Hail  thou  most  sacred  venerable  thing! 
What  Muse  is  worthy  thee  to  sing? 
Thee,  from  whose  pregnant  universal  womb 
All  things,  ev'n  Light,  thy  rival,  first  did  come. 
5  What  dares  he  not  attempt  that  sings  of  thee 

Thou  first  and  greatest  mystery? 
Who  can  the  secrets  of  thy  essence  tell? 
Thou,  like  the  light  of  God,  art  inaccessible. 

Before  great  Love  this  monument  did  raise, 
10  This  ample  theatre  of  praise; 

Before  the  folding  circles  of  the  sky 
Were  tuned  by  Him,  Who  is  all  harmony 
Before  the  morning  Stars  their  hymn  begd/i, 

Before  the  council  held  for  man, 
15  Before  the  birth  of  either  time  or  place, 

Thou   reign'st   unquestion'd   monarch   iii   the   empty 
space. 

Thy  native  lot  thou  didst  to  Light  resign, 

But  still  half  of  the  globe  is  thine. 
Here  with  a  quiet,  but  yet  awful  hand, 
20  Like  the  best  emperors  thou  dost  command. 

To  thee  the  stars  above  their  brightness  owe, 

And  mortals  their  repose  below: 
To  thy  protection  fear  and  sorrow  flee, 
And  those  that  weary  are  of  light,  find  rest  in  thee. 
J.  Norris  of  Bemerton 


cli]  Book  Second  179 

CL 

A  VISION 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night, 

Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright: — 

And  round  beneath  it,  Time,  in  hours,  days,  years, 
5  Driven  by  the  spheres, 

Like  a  vast  shadow  moved;  in  which  the  World 
And  all  her  train  were  hurl'd. 

H.  Vaughan 


ALEXANDER'S  FEAST,  OR,  THE  POWER 
OF  MUSIC 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 

By  Philip's  warlike  son — 

Aloft  in  awful  state 

The  godlike  hero  sate 
5  On  his  imperial  throne; 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 

Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crown'd); 

The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side 
10  Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride: — 

Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 

None  but  the  brave 

None  but  the  brave 
15  None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair! 

Timotheus  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  quire 
With  flying  fingers  touch'd  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky 
20  And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above — 


180  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ctt 

Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love! 

A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god; 

Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  prest, 
5  And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast, 

Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curl'd, 

And  stamp' d  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the 
world. 

— The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound; 

A  present  deity!  they  shout  around: 
10  A  present  deity!  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound' 

With  ravish'd  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god; 

Affects  to  nod 
15  And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 

Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young: 

The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes; 

Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums! 
20  Flush'd  with  a  purple  grace 

He  shows  his  honest  face: 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath;  he  comes,  he  comes! 

Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain; 
25  Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 

Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 

Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure, 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

30       Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again, 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew 
the  slain! 

The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 

His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes; 
35  And  while  he  Heaven  and  Earth  defied 

Changed  his  hand  and  check'd  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  Muse 

Soft  pity  to  infuse: 


clfl  Book  Second  181 

He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 
By  too  severe  a  fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
5  And  weltering  in  has  blood; 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
10  — With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving  in  his  alter'd  soul 
The  various  turns  of  Chance  below; 
And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

45      The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 

That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 

'Twas  but  a  kindred-sound  to  move, 

For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures 
20  Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 

War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble, 

Honour  but  an  empty  bubble; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 

Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying; 
25  If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 

Think,  O  think,  it  worth  enjoying: 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee! 

— The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause; 
V)  So  Love  was  crown'd,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 

Gazed  on  the  fair 

Who  caused  his  care, 

And  sigh'd  and  look'd,  sigh'd  and  look'd, 
15  Sigh'd  and  look'd,  and  sigh'd  again: 

At  length  with  love  and  wine  at  once  opprest 

The  vanquish'd  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again: 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain! 
*0  Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder 

And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 


182  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cli 

Hark,  hark!  the  horrid  sound 

Has  raised  up  his  head: 

As  awaked  from  the  dead 

And  amazed  he  stares  around. 
5  Revenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries, 

See  the  Furies  arise! 

See  the  snakes  that  they  rear 

How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 

And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes! 
10  Behold  a  ghastly  band, 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain 

And  unburied  remain 

Inglorious  on  the  plain: 
15  Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiant  crew! 

Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes 

And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 
20  — The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy: 

And  the  King  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 

Thais  led  the  way 

To  light  him  to  his  prey, 

And  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy! 

25      — Thus,  long  ago, 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learn'd  to  blow, 

While  organs  yet  were  mute, 

Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre 
30  Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 

The  sweet  enthusiast  from  her  sacred  store 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
35  And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 

With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before 

— Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize 

Or  both  divide  the  crown; 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
40  She  drew  an  angel  down! 

J.  Dryden 


Creasutp 

Ci)irD 


ODE  ON  THE  PLEASURE  ARISING  FROM 
VICISSITUDE 

Now  the  golden  Morn  aloft 

Waves  her  dew  bespangled  wing, 
With  vermeil  cheek  and  whisper  soft 

She  woos  the  tardy  Spring: 
5  Till  April  starts,  and"  calls  around 

The  sleeping  fragrance  from  the  ground, 
And  lightly  o'er  the  living  scene 
Scatters  his  freshest,  tenderest  green. 

New-born  flocks,  in  rustic  dance, 
10  Frisking  ply  their  feeble  feet; 

Forgetful  of  their  wintry  trance 
The  birds  his  presence  greet: 

But  chief,  the  skylark  warbles  high 

His  trembling  thrilling  ecstacy; 
15  And  lessening  from  the  dazzled  sight, 

Melts  into  air  and  liquid  light. 

Yesterday  the  sullen  year 

Saw  the  snowy  whirlwind  fly; 

Mute  was  the  music  of  the  air, 

20  The  herd  stood  drooping  by: 

Their  raptures  now  that  wildly  flow 
No  yesterday  nor  morrow  know; 
'Tis  Man  alone  that  joy  descries 
WTith  forward  and  reverted  eyes. 
183 


184  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clii 

Smiles  on  past  misfortune's  brow 
Soft  reflection's  hand  can  trace, 
And  o'er  the  cheek  of  sorrow  throw 

A'  melancholy  grace ; 

5  While  hope  prolongs  our  happier  hour, 

Or  deepest  shades  that  dimly  lour 
And  blacken  round  our  weary  way, 
Gilds  with  a  gleam  of  distant  day 

Still,  where  rosy  pleasure  leads, 
10  See  a  kindred  grief  pursue; 

Behind  the  steps  that  misery  treads 
Approaching  comfort  view: 

The  hues  of  bliss  more  brightly  glow 

Chastised  by  sabler  tints  of  woe, 
15  And  blended  form,  with  artful  strife, 

The  strength  and  harmony  of  life. 

See  the  wretch  that  long  has  tost 

On  the  thorny  bed  of  pain, 
At  length  repair  his  vigour  lost 
20  And  breathe  and  walk  again: 

The  meanest  floweret  of  the  vale, 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale, 
The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies, 
To  him  are  opening  Paradise. 

T.  Gray 


ODE  TO  SIMPLICITY 

O  Thou,  by  Nature  taught 
To  breathe  her  genuine  thought 
In  numbers  warmly  pure,  and  sweetly  strong; 

Who  first,  on  mountains  wild, 
5  In  Fancy,  loveliest  child, 

Thy  babe,  or  Pleasure's,  nursed  the  powers  of  song! 

Thou,  who  with  hermit  heart, 

Disdain'st  the  wealth  of  art, 

And  gauds,  and  pageant  weeds,  and  trailing  pall, 
10  But  com'st,  a  decent  maid 

In  Attic  robe  array'd, 
O  chaste,  unboastful  Nymph,  to  thee  I  call! 


cliii]  Book  Third  18& 

By  all  the  honey'd  store 

On  Hybla's  thymy  shore, 
By  all  her  blooms  and  mingled  murmurs  dear' 

By  her  whose  love-lorn  woe 
5  In  evening  musings  slow 

Soothed  sweetly  sad  Electra's  poet's  ear: 

By  old  Cephisus  deep, 

Who  spread  his  wavy  sweep 
In  warbled  wanderings  round  thy  green  retreat; 
10  On  whose  enamell'd  side, 

When  holy  Freedom  died, 
No  equal  haunt  allured  thy  future  feet: — 

O  sister  meek  of  Truth, 
To  my  admiring  youth 

15  Thy  sober  aid  and  native  charms  infuse! 
The  flowers  that  sweetest  breathe, 
Though  Beauty  cull'd  the  wreath, 
Still  ask  thy  hand  to  range  their  order'd  hues 

While  Rome  could  none  esteem 
20  But  Virtue's  patriot  theme, 

You  loved  her  hills,  .and  led  her  laureat  band; 
But  stay'd  to  sing  alone 
To  one  "distinguish' d  throne; 
And  turn'd  thy  face,  and  fled  her  alter'd  land. 

25  No  more,  in  hall  or  bower, 

The  Passions  own  thy  power; 
Love,  only  Love,  her  forceless  numbers  mean: 

For  thou  hast  left  her  shrine; 

Nor  olive  more,  nor  vine, 
30.  Shall  gain  thy  feet  to  bless  the  servile  scene. 

Though  taste,  though  genius,  bless 

To  some  divine  excess, 
Faints  the  cold  work  till  thou  inspire  the  whole; 

What  each,  what  all  supply 
35  May  court,  may  charm  our  eye; 

Thou,  only  thou,  canst  raise  the  meeting  soul! 

Of  these  let  others  ask 
To  aid  some  mighty  task; 


J86  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cliii 

T  only  seek  to  find  thy  temperate  vale; 

Where  oft  my  reed  might  sound 

To  maids  and  shepherds  round, 
And  all  thy  sons,  O  Nature!  learn  my  tale. 

W .  Collins 


SOLITUDE 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 
A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 

In  his  own  ground. 

5      Whose  herds  with  milk,  whost,  fields  with  bread. 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 

In  winter  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcern'dly  find 

10       Hours,  days,  and  years,  slide  soft  away 

In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 

Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night;  study  and  ease 
Together  mixt,  sweet  recreation, 
15       And  innocence,  which  most  does  please 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown; 
Thus  unlamented  let  me  die; 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
20  Tell  where  I  lie. 

A.  Pope 

ci/v 
THE  BLIND  BOY 

O  say  what  is  that  thing  calPd  Light, 

Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy; 
What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sight, 

O  tell  your  poor  blind  boy' 


clvi]  Book  Third  187 

You  talk  of  wondrous  things  you  see, 
You  say  the  sun  shines  bright; 

I  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 
Or  make  it  day  or  night? 

5  My  day  or  night  myself  I  make 

Whene'er  I  sleep  or  play; 
And  could  I  ever  keep  awake 
With  me  'twere  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 
10  You  mourn  my  hapless  woe; 

But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 
A  loss  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 

My  cheer  of  mind  destroy: 
15  Whilst  thus  I  sing,  I  am  a  king, 

Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 

C.  Gibber 


I  A  FAVOURITE  CAT,  DROWNED  IN  A 
TUB  OF  GOLD  FISHES 

'Twas  on  a  lofty  vase's  side, 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 
The  azure  flowers  that  blow, 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind 
The  pensive  Selima,  reclined, 
Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared: 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 
The  velvet  of  her  paws, 
Her  coat  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 
Her  ears  of  jet,  and  emerald  eyes — 
She  saw,  and  purr'd  applause. 

Still  had  she  gazed,  but  'midst  the  tide 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide, 


188  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clvj 

The  Genii  of  the  stream: 
Their  scaly  armour's  Tyrian  hue 
Through  richest  purple,  to  the  view 
Betray'd  a  golden  gleam. 

5          The  hapless  Nymph  with  wonder  saw: 
A  whisker  first,  and  then  a  claw 
With  many  an  ardent  wish 
She  stretch' d,  in  vain,  to  reach  the  prize — 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise? 
10          What  Cat's  averse  to  fish? 

Presumptuous  maid!  with  looks  intent 
Again  she  stretch'd,  again  she  bent, 
Nor  knew  the  gulf  between — • 
Malignant  Fate  sat  by  and  smiled — 
15  The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled; 

She  tumbled  headlong  in! 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood 
She  mew'd  to  every  watery  God 
Some  speedy  aid  to  send: — 
20  No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirr'd, 

Nor  cruel  Tom  nor  Susan  heard — 
A  favourite  has  no  friend! 

From  hence,  ye  Beauties!  undeceived 
Know  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved, 
25  And  be  with  caution  bold: 

Not  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes 
And  heedless  hearts,  is  lawful  prize, 
Nor  all  that  glisters,  gold! 

T.  Gray 


CLVII 

TO  CHARLOTTE  PULTENEY 


Timely  blossom,  Infant  fair, 
Fondling  of  a  happy  pair, 
Every  morn  and  every  night 
Their  solicitous  delight, 
Sleeping,  waking,  still  at  ease, 


clviii]  Book  Third  189 

Pleasing,  without  skill  to  please; 

Little  gossip,  blithe  and  hale, 

Tattling  many  a  broken  tale, 

Singing  many  a  tuneless  song, 
5  Lavish  of  a  heedless  tongue; 

Simple  maiden,  void  of  art, 

Babbling  out  the  very  heart, 

Yet  abandon'd  to  thy  will, 

Yet  imagining  no  ill, 
10  Yet  too  innocent  to  blush; 

Like  the  linnet  in  the  bush 

To  the  mother-linnet's  note 

Moduling  her  slender  throat; 

Chirping  forth  thy  petty  joys, 
15  Wanton  in  the  change  of  toys, 

Like  the  linnet  green,  in  May 

Flitting  to  each  bloomy  spray; 

Wearied  then  and  glad  of  rest, 

Like  the  linnet  in  the  nest: — 
20  This  thy  present  happy  lot 

This,  in  time  will  be  forgot: 

Other  pleasures,  other  cares, 

Ever-busy  Time  prepares; 
And  thou  shalt  in  thy  daughter  see, 
25  This  picture,  once,  resembled  thee. 

A.  Philips 


RULE  BRITANNIA  ' 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  w7as  the  charter  of  her  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain:     . 
5       Rule,  Britannia!  Britannia  rules  the  waves! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 

Must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall, 
Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free 
10  The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 


190  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clviii 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

5          Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame; 
All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 
And  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign: 
10  Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine; 

All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 
And  every  shore  it  circles  thine! 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair; 
15  lilest  Isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crown'd 

And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair: — - 
Rule,  Britannia!  Britannia  rules  the  waves! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves! 

J.  Thomson 


THE  BARD 

Pindaric  Ode 

'Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King! 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait; 
Tho'  fann'd  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
5  Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail, 

Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  Tyrant,  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 
From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears!' 
— Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the  crested  pride 
10       Of  the  first  Edward  scatter'd  wild  dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 

He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  arrav: — 
Stout  Glo'ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance: 


clix]  Book  Third  191 

'To  arms!'  cried  Mortimer,  and  couch'd  his  quivering 
lance. 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 

Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe 
5  With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood; 
(Loose  his  beard  and  hoary  hair 
Stream'd  like  a  meteor  to  the  troubled  air) 
And  with  a  master's  hand  and  prophet's  fire 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre: 
10       'Hark,  how  each  giant-oak  and  desert-cave 
Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath! 
O'er  thee,  oh  King!  their  hundred  arms  they  wave., 

Revenge  on  thee.  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
15  To  high-born  Hoel's  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay. 

'Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 

That  hush'd  the  stormy  main: 
Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed: 

Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 
20       Modred,  whose  magic  song 

Made  huge  Plinlimmoii  bow  his  cloud-topt  head. 

On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie 
Smear'd  with  gore  and  ghastly  pale: 
Far,  far  aioof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail; 
25       The  famish' d  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries — 
30  No  more  I  weep;  They  do  not  sleep; 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a  griesly  band, 
I  see  them  sit;  They  linger  yet, 

Avengers  of  their  native  land: 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join. 
35  And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line. 

Weave  the  warp  and  weave  the  i"oof 

The  winding  sheet  of  Edward's  race; 
Give  ample  room  and  verge  enough 

The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 


192  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clix 

Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night, 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death  thro'  Berkley's  roof  that  ring, 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king! 
5       She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate, 

From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  heaven!  What  terrors  round  him  wait! 
Amazement  in  his  van,  with  flight  combined, 
10  And  sorrow's  faded  form,  and  solitude  behind. 

'Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord, 

Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies! 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 
A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
15  7s  the  sable  warrior  fled? 
•    Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm  that  in  thy  noon-tide  beam  were  born? 
— Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 
Fair  laughs  the  Morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 
20       While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes: 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm: 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway, 
That  hush'd  in  grim  repose  expects  his  evening  prey. 

25       'Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare; 

Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast: 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
30       A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest, 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse? 

Long  years  of  havock  urge  their  destined  course, 
And  thro'  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way. 
35       Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London's  lasting  shame, 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed, 

Revere  his  consort's  faith,  his  father's  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  head! 
Above ,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 


clix]  Book  Third  193 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread: 
The  bristled  boar  in  infant-gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  the  accursed  loom, 
6  Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom, 

'Edward,  lo!  to  sudden  fate 

(Weave  we  the  woof;  The  thread  is  spun;) 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 

(The  web  is  wove;  The  work  is  done.) 
10  — Stay,  oh  stay!  nor  thus  forlorn 

Leave  me  unbless'd,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn: 
In  yon  bright  track  that  fires  the  western  skies 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But  oh!  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height 
15       Descending  slow  their  glittering  skirts  unroll? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight, 
Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail: — 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings!  Britannia's  issue,  haill 

20       'Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  form  divine! 
25  Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-line: 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face 
Attemper' d  sweet  to  virgin-grace 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air, 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play? 
30  Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear; 
They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and  soaring  as  she  sings, 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  heaven  he~  many-colour'd  wings. 

'The  verse  adorn  again 
35       Fierce  war,  and  faithful  love, 

And  truth  severe,  by  fairy  fiction  drest. 
In  buskin' d  measures  move 

Pale  grief,  and  pleasing  pain, 

With  horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast, 
40  A  voice  as  of  the  cherub-choir 


194  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clix 

Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear, 
And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear 
That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 

Fond  impious  man,  think'st  thou  yon  sanguine  cloud 
5       Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quench'd  the  orb  of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  for  me:  with  joy  I  see 

The  different  doom  our  fates  assign: 
10  Be  thine  despair  and  sceptred  care, 
To  triumph  and  to  die  are  mine.' 
— He    spoke,    and    headlong    from    the    mountain's 

height 

Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to  endless  night. 

T.  Gray 

CLX 
ODE  WRITTEN  IN  1746 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mould, 
5  She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 

Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is_rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung: 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
10  To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 

And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there! 

W.  Collins 

CLXI 

LAMENT  FOR  CULLODEN 

The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness, 
Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see; 
For  e'en  and  morn  she  cries,  Alas! 
And  aye  the  saut  tear  blins  her  ee: 
5  Drumossie  moor — Drumossie  day — 


clxii]  Book  Third  195 

A  waefu'  day  it  was  to  me! 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 
My  father  dear,  and  brethren  three. 

Their  winding-sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 
5  Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see: 

And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 
That  ever  blest  a  woman's  ee! 
Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 
A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be; 
10  For  mony  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair 

That  ne'er  did  wrang  to  thine  or  thee. 

R.  Burns 


CLXII 

LAMENT  FOR  FLODDEN 

I've  heard  them  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking, 

Lasses  a'  lilting  before  dawn  o'  day; 
But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

5  At  bughts,  in  the  morning,  nae  blythe  lads  are  scorn- 
ing, 

Lasses  are  lonely  and  dowie  and  wae; 
Nae  damn',  nae  gabbin',  but  sighing  and  sabbing, 
Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin  and  hies  her  away. 

In  har'st,  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are  jeering, 
10       Bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runkled,  and  gray; 

At  fair  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae  fleeching — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  e'en,  in  the  gloaming,  nae  younkers  are  roaming 

'Bout  stacks  wi'  the  lasses' at  bogle  to  play; 
15  But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her  dearie — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  weded  away. 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order,  sent  our  lads  to  the  Border! 

The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the  day; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  fought  aye  the  fore- 
most, 
20      The  prime  of  our  land,  are  cauld  in  the  clay. 


196  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxii 

We'll  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  the  ewe-milking; 

Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae; 
Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

J.  Elliott 


THE  BRAES  OF  YARROW 

Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream, 
When  first  on  them  I  met  my  lover; 
Thy  braes  how  dreary,  Yarrow  stream, 
When  now  thy  waves  his  body  cover! 
5  For  ever  now,  O  Yarrow  stream! 

Thou  art  to  me  a  stream  of  sorrow; 
For  never  on  thy  banks  shall  I 
Behold  my  Love,  the  flower  of  Yarrow! 

He  promised  me  a  milk-white  steed 
10          To  bear  me  to  his  father's  bowers; 
He  promised  me  a  little  page 
To  squire  me  to  his  father's  towers; 
He  promised  me  a  wedding-ring, — 
The  wedding-day  was  fix'd  to-morrow; — 
15  Now  he  is  wedded  to  his  grave, 

Alas,  his  watery  grave,  in  Yarrow! 

Sweet  were  his  words  when  last  we  met; 
My  passion  I  as  freely  told  him; 
Clasp' d  in  his  arms,  I  little  thought 
20          That  I  should  never  more  behold  him! 
Scarce  was  he  gone,  I  saw  his  ghost; 
It  vanish'd  with  a  shriek  of  sorrow; 
Thrice  did  the  water-wraith  ascend, 
And  gave  a  doleful  groan  thro'  Yarrow. 

25  His  mother  from  the  window  look'd 

With  all  the  longing  of  a  mother; 
His  little  sister  weeping  walk'd 
The  green-wood  path  to  meet  her  brother; 
They  sought  him  east,  they  sought  him  we 

30  They  sought  him  all  the  forest  thorough; 

They  only  saw  the  cloud  of  night, 
They  only  heard  the  roar  of  Yarrow. 


Book  Third  197 

No  longer  from  thy  window  look — 
Thou  hast  no  son,  thou  tender  mother! 
No  longer  walk,  thou  lovely  maid; 
Alas,  thou  hast  no  more  a  brother! 
No  longer  seek  him  east  or  west 
And  search  no  more  the  forest  thorough; 
For,  wandering  in  the  night  so  dark, 
He  fell  a  lifeless  corpse  in  Yarrow. 

The  tear  shall  never  leave  my  cheek, 
No  other  youth  shall  be  my  marrow — 
I'll  seek  thy  body  in  the  stream, 
And  then  with  thee  I'll  sleep  in  Yarrow, 
— The  tear  did  never  leave  her  cheek, 
No  other  youth  became  her  marrow; 
She  found  his  body  in  the  stream, 
And  now  with  him  she  sleeps  in  Yarrow. 
J.  Logan, 


WILLY  DROWNED  IN  YARROW 

Down  in  yon  garden  sweet  and  gay 
Where  bonnie  grows  the  lily, 

I  heard  a  fair  maid  sighing  say, 
'My  wish  be  wi'  sweet  Willie! 

'Willie's  rare,  and  Willie's  fair, 
And  Willie's  wondrous  bonny; 

And  Willie  hecht  to  marry  me 
Gin  e'er  he  married  ony. 

'O  gentle  wind,  that  bloweth  south, 
From  where  my  Love  repaireth, 

Convey  a  kiss  frae  his  dear  mouth 
And  tell  me  how  he  fareth! 


'O  tell  sweet  Willie  to  come  doun 
And  hear  the  mavis  singing, 

And  see  the  birds  on  ilka  bush 
And  leaves  around  them  hinging. 


198  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxiv 

'The  Jav'rock  there,  wi'  her  white  breast 

And  gentle  throat  sae  narrow; 

There's  sport  eneuch  for  gentlemen 

On  Leader  haughs  and  Yarrow. 

6  'O  Leader  haughs  are  wide  and  braid 

And  Yarrow  haughs  are  bonny; 
There  Willie  hecht  to  marry  me 
If  e'er  he  married  ony. 

'But  Willie's  gone,  whom  I  thought  on, 
10  And  does  not  hear  me  weeping; 

Draws  many  a  tear  frae  true  love's  e'e 
When  other  maids  are  sleeping. 

'Yestreen  I  made  my  bed  fu'  braid, 

The  night  I'll  make  it  narrow, 
15  For  a'  the  live-lang  winter  night 

I  lie  twined  o'  my  marrow. 

'O  came  ye  by  yon  water-side? 

Pou'd  you  the  rose  or  lily? 
Or  came  you  by  yon  meadow  green, 
20  Or  saw  you  my  sweet  Willie?' 

She  sought  him  up,  she  sought  him  down. 
She  sought  him  braid  and  narrow; 

Syne,  in  the  cleaving  of  a  craig, 
She  found  him  drown'd  in  Yarrow! 

Anon, 

CLXV 
LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 

Toll  for  the  Brave! 
The  brave  that  are  no  more! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave 
Fast  by  their  native  shore! 

5  Eight  hundred  of  the  brave 

Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 
Had  made  the  vessel  heel 
And  IP  id  her  on  her  side. 


clxvi)  Book  Third  199 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds 
And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 
With  all  her  crew  complete. 

5  Toll  for  the  brave! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 
His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle; 
10  No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 

She  sprang  no  fatal  leak, 
She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 
His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
15  When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

— Weigh  the  vessel  up 
Once  dreaded  by  our  foes! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 
20  The  tears  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again 

Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main: 

25  But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o'er; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 
Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 
W.  Cowper 

CLXVI 
BLACK-EYED  SUSAN 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moorM, 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 

When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard; 

'O!  where  shall  I  my  true-love  find? 
5  Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true 

If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew.' 


200  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxvi 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 
Rock'd  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 

Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard 

He  sigh'd,  and  cast  his  eyes  below: 
5      The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing  hands, 

And  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 

Shuts  close  his  pinions'  to  his  breast 
If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 
10  And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest: — 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 
Might  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet. 

'O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear. 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain; 
15       Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds;  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

'Believe  not  what  the  landmen  say 
20  Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind: 

They'll  tell  thee,  sailors,  when  away, 

In  every  port  a  mistress  find: 
Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so, 
For  Thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

25       'If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail, 

Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 
Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale, 

Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 
Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 
30       Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue 

'Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet  safe  from  harms 

William  shall  to  his  Dear  return. 
35       Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly 

Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's  <ye. 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word, 
The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard; 


clxvii]  Book  Third  20J 

They  kiss'd,  she  sigh'd,  he  hung  his  head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land; 
'Adieu!'  she  cries;  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 

J.  Gay 

CLXVII 
SALLY  IN  OUR  ALLEY 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 

There's  none  like  pretty  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
5  There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  hearj 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbagf  -nets 
10  And  through  the  streets  d  jes  cry  'em; 

Her  mother  she  sells  laces  Jong 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em: 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally! 
15  She  is  the  darling  of  ruy  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  .eave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  siucerelyj 
My  master  come,',  like  any  Turk, 
20  And  bangs  me  most  severely — 

But  let  him  bai  g  his  bellyful, 
'  I'll  bear  it  all  for  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 
And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

25  Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week 

1  dearly  love  but  one  day — 
And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday; 
For  then  I'm  drest  all  in  my  best 
30  To  walk  abroad  with  Sally; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 
And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 


202  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

As  soon  as  text  is  named; 
5  I  leave  the  church  in  sermon-time 

And  slink  away  to  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again 
10  O  then  I  shall  have  money; 

I'll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all, 

I'll  give  it  to  my  honey: 
I  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound, 

I  'd  give  it  all  to  Sally; 
15  She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  and  the  neighbors  all 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally, 
And,  but  for  her,  I'd  better  be 
20  A  slave  and  row  a  galley; 

But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out 

O  then  I'll  marry  Sally, — 
O  then  we'll  wed,  and  then  we'll  bed  , 
But  not  in  our  alley! 

H.  Carey 


CLXVIII 
A  FAREWELL 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 

An'  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie; 
That  I  may  drink  before  I  go 

A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie: 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith, 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  ine-ierry 
The  ship  rides  bj   the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonnie  Mary. 


clxix]  Book  Third  203 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready; 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody; 
5          But  it's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  make  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 
Nor  shout  o'  war  that's  heard  afar — 
It's  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 

R.  Burns 


If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please 

Right  soon  I'll  mount  my  steed; 
And  strong  his  arm,  and  fast  his  seat 

That  bears  frae  me  the  meed. 
5  I'll  wear  thy  colours  in  my  cap 

Thy  picture  at  my  heart; 
And  he  that  bends  not  to  thine  eye 
Shall  rue  it  to  his  smart! 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love; 
10  O  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee! 

For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I'll  take 
Tho'  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

If  gay  attire  delight  thine  eye 

I'll  dight  me  in  array; 
15  I'll  tend  thy  chamber  door  all  night, 

And  squire  thee  all  the  day. 
If  sweetest  sounds  can  win  thine  ear, 

These  sounds  I'll  strive  to  catch; 

Thy  voice  I'll  steal  to  woo  thysell, 

20  That  voice  that  nane  can  match. 

But  if  fond  love  thy  heart  can  gain, 

I  never  broke  a  vow; 
Nae  maiden  lays  her  skaith  to  me, 

I  never  loved  but  you. 
25  For  you  alone  I  ride  the  ring, 

For  you  I  wear  the  blue; 
For  you  alone  I  strive  to  sing, 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo! 


204  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxix 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love; 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee! 
For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I'll  take, 

Tho'  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

R.  Graham  of  Gartmore 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade, 

Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid — - 

Silent  and  chaste  she  steals  along, 

Far  from  the  world's  gay  busy  throng: 

With  gentle  yet  prevailing  force, 

Intent  upon  her  destined  course; 

Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does, 

Blessing  and  blest  where'er  she  goes; 

Pure-bosom' d  as  that  watery  glass, 

And  Heaven  reflected  in  her  face. 

W.  Cowper 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY 

Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile — 
Tho'  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs! 

5      Ah,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow: 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 
What  most  I  wish — and  fear  to  know! 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps! 
10       Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast: 
— And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest! 


clxxiiij  Book  Third  205 

Sleep  on  secure!     Above  controul 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee: 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuary! 

*S.  Rogers 


For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove 
An  unrelenting  foe  to  Love, 
And  when  we  meet  a  mutual  heart 
Come  in  between,  and  bid  us  part? 

Bid  us  sigh  on  from  day  to  day, 
And  wish  and  wish  the  soul  away; 
Till  youth  and  genial  years  are  flown, 
And  all  the  life  of  life  is  gone? 

But  busy,  busy,  still  art  thou, 
To  bind  the  loveless  joyless  vow, 
The  heart  from  pleasure  to  delude, 
To  join  the  gentle  to  the  rude. 

For  once,  O  Fortune,  hear  my  prayer. 
And  I  absolve  thy  future  care; 
All  other  blessings  I  resign, 
Make  but  the  dear  Am.anda  mine. 

J.  Thomson 


The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure, 
Conveys  it  in  a  borrow'd  name: 
Euphelia  serves  to  grace  my  measure 
But  Cloe  is  my  real  flame. 

My  softest  verse,  my  darling  lyre 

Upon  Euphelia's  toilet  lay — 

When  Cloe  noted  her  desire 

That  I  should  sing,  that  I  should  play. 

My  lyre  I  tune,  my  voice  I  raise, 
But  with  my  numbers  mix  my  sighs; 
And  whilst  I  sing  Euphelia's  praise, 
I  fix  my  soul  oh  Cloe's  eyes. 


206  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxxiii 

Fair  Cloe  blush'd;  Euphelia  frown'd: 
I  sung,  and  gazed;  I  play'd,  and  trembled: 
And  Venus  to  the  Loves  around 
Remark'd  how  ill  we  all  dissembled. 

M.  Prior 


LOVE'S  SECRET 

Never  seek  to  tell  thy  love, 
Love  that  never  told  can  be; 

For  the  gentle  wind  doth  move 
Silently,  invisibly. 

«  I  told  my  love,  I  told  my  love, 

I  told  her  all  my  heart, 
Trembling,  cold,  in  ghastly  fears : 
Ah!  she  did  depart. 

Soon  after  she  was  gone  from  me 
10  A  traveller  came  by, 

Silently,  invisibly: 

He  took  her  with  a  sigh. 

W.  Blake 


When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, — 
What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 
To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 
To  give  repentance  to  her  lover 
And  wring  his  bosom,  is — to  die. 

O.  Goldsmith 


eborvii]  Book  Third  207 


Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon 
How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair! 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care! 

5  Thou '11  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  upon  the  bough; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 
When  my  fause  Luve  was  true. 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 
JO  That  sings  beside  thy  mate; 

For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 
And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
15  And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love; 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree; 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose. 
20  But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me, 

R.  Burnt 


CLXXVII 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  POESY 
A  Pindaric  Ode 

Awake,  Aeolian  lyre,  awake, 
And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling  strings:. 
From  Helicon's  harmonious  springs 

A  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress  taV^ 
5  The  laughing  flowers  that  round  them  blow 
Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow. 
Now  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along 
Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong, 


208  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxxvii 

Thro'  verdant  vales,  and  Ceres'  golden  reign; 

Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain 

Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour: 

The  rocks  and  nodding  groves  re-bellow  to  the  roar. 

5       Oh!  Sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 

Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  airs, 
Enchanting  shell!  the  sullen  Cares 

And  frantic  Passions  hear  thy  soft  controul, 
On  Thracia's  hills  the  Lord  of  War 

10  Has  curb'd  the  fury  of  his  car 

And  dropt  his  thirsty  lance  at  thy  command. 
Perching  on  the  sceptred  hand 
Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  feather'd  king 
With  ruffled  plumes,  and  flagging  wing: 

15  Quench' d  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 

The  terror  of  his  beak,  and  lightnings  of  his  eye. 

Thee  the  voice,  the  dance,  obey 

Temper'd  to  thy  warbled  lay. 

O'er  Idalia's  velvet-green 
20  The  rosy-crowned  Loves  are  seen 

On  Cytherea's  day; 

With  antic  Sport,  and  blue-eyed  Pleasures, 

Frisking  light  in  frolic  measures; 

Now  pursuing,  now  retreating, 
25       Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet: 

To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating 
Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet. 

Slow  melting  strains  their  Queen's  approach  declare: 

Where'er  she  turns,  the  Graces  homage  pay: 
30  With  arms  sublime  that  float  upon  the  air 
In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way: 

O'er  her  warm  cheek  and  rising  bosom  move 

The  bloom  of  young  Desire  and  purple  light  of  Love. 

Man's  feeble  race  what  ills  await! 

35  Labour,  and  Penury,  the  racks  of  Pain, 

Disease,  and  Sorrow's  wreeping  train, 

And  Death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms  of  fatel 
The  fond  complaint,  my  song,  disprove, 
A.nd  justify  the  lawrs  of  Jove. 


clxxvii]  Book  Third  209 

Say,  has  he  given  in  vain  the  heavenly  Muse? 
Night,  and  all  her  sickly  dews, 
Her  spectres  wan,  and  birds  of  boding  cry 
He  gives  to  range  the  dreary  sky: 
5  Till  down  the  eastern  cliffs  afar 

Hyperion's  march  they  spy,  and  glittering  shafts  of  war- 

In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road 
Where  shaggy  forms  o'er  ice-built  mountains  roam, 
The  Muse  has  broke  the  twilight  gloom 
10       To  cheer  the  shivering  native's  dull  abode. 
And  oft,  beneath  the  odorous  shade 
Of  Chili's  boundless  forests  laid, 
She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  repeat 
In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet 
i5  Their  feather-cinctured  chiefs,  and  dusky  loves. 
Her  track,  where'er  the  goddess  roves, 
Glory  pursue,  and  generous  Shame, 
Th'  unconquerable  Mind,  and  Freedom's  holy  flame. 
Woods,  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep, 
20  Isles,  that  crown  th'  Aegean  deep, 
Fields  that  cool  Ilissus  laves, 
Or  where  Maeander's  amber  waves 
In  lingering  labyrinths  creep, 
How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 
25  Mute,  but  to  the  voice  of  anguish! 
Where  each  old  poetic  mountain 

Inspiration  breathed  around; 
Every  shade  and  hallo w'd  fountain 
Murmur'd  deep  a  solemn  sound: 
30  Till  the  sad  Nine,  in  Greece's  evil  hour 

Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains. 
Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant  Power, 

And  coward  Vice,  that  revels  in  her  chains. 
•    When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost, 
35  They  sought,  oh  Albion!  next,  thy  sea-encircled  coast. 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer-gale 
In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  Darling  laid, 
.What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  stray'd, 

To  him  the  mighty  Mother  did  unveil 
40  Her  awful  face:  the  dauntless  child 

Stretch' d  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 


210  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxxvii 

'This  pencil  take'  (she  said),  'whose  colours  clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year: 
Thine,  too,  these  golden  keys,  immortal  Boy 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  joy; 
5  Of  horror  that,  and  thrilling  fears, 

Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears.' 

Nor  second  He,  that  rode  sublime 

Upon  the  seraph -wings  of  Extasy 

The  secrets  of  the  abyss  to  spy: 
10       He  pass'd  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  times 

The  living  Throne,  the  sapphire-blaze 

Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze, 

He  saw;  but  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 

Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 
15  Behold  where  Dryden's  less  presumptuous  car 

Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 

Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race, 

With  necks  in  thunder  clothed,  and  long-resounding 
pace. 

Hark,  his  hands  the  lyre  explore! 
20  Bright-eyed  Fancy,  hovering  o'er, 
Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 
Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn. 
But  ah!  'tis  heard  no  more — 
Oh!  lyre  divine,  what  daring  spirit 
25  Wakes  thee  now?  Tho'  he  inherit 
Nor  the  pride,  nor  ample  pinion, 

That  the  Theban  eagle  bear, 
Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 
Thro'  the  azure  deep  of  air: 
30  Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 
Such  forms  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray 
With  orient  hues,  unborrow'd  of  the  sun: 

Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate: 
35  Beneath  the  Good  how  far — but  far  above  the  Great 

T.  Gray 


clxxviii]  Book  Third  211 

CLXXVIII 

THE  PASSIONS 
An  Ode  for  Music 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 

While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 

The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 

Throng'd  around  her  magic  cell 
5  Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 

Possest  beyond  the  Muse's  painting; 

By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 

Disturb' d,  delighted,  raised,  refined: 

'Till  once,  'tis  said,  w7hen  all  were  fired, 
10  Fill'd  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 

From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 

They  snatch'd  her  instruments  of  sound, 

And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 

Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
15  Each  (for  Madness  ruled  the  hour) 

Would  prove  his  owTn  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewilder'd  laid, 

And  back  recoil' d,  he  knew  not  why, 

20       E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rush'd,  his  eyes  on  fire, 
In  lightnings,  own'd  his  secret  stings; 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings,, 

25  With  woeful  measures  wan  Despair, 

Low  sullen  sounds,  his  grief  beguiled; 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air, 

'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 
30       What  was  thy  delighted  measure? 
Still  it  whisper'd  promised  pleasure 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail  I 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale 


212  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  fclxxviii 

She  call'd  on  Echo  still  through  all  the  song; 
And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close; 

And  Hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden 
hair; — 

5  And  longer  had  she  sung: — but  with  a  frown 

Revenge  impatient  rose: 
He  threw  his  blood-stain'd  sword  in  thunder  down; 

And  with  a  withering  look 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took 
10  And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 

Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe! 
And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat; 
And,  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 
15  Dejected  Pity  at  his  side 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unalter'd  mien, 
While  each  strain'd  ball  of  sight  seem'd  bursting  from 
his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fix'd: 
20       Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state! 

Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mix'd; 
And  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving  call'd  on  Hate. 

With  eyes  up-raised,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired; 
25  And  from  her  wild  sequester'd  seat, 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
Pour'd  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul: 
And  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around 
Bubbling  runnels  join'd  the  sound; 

30  Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure  stole, 
Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  delay, 
Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

35  But  O!  how  alter'd  was  its  sprightlier  tone 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 


clxxviii]  Book  Third  213 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemm'd  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 

The  hunter's  call  to  Faun  and  Dryad  known! 
5  The  oak-crown'd  Sisters  and  their  chaste-eyed  Queen, 
Satyrs  and  Sylvan  Boys,  were  seen 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green: 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear; 
And  Sport  leapt  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear. 

10  Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial: 
He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest: 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best: 
15  They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain 
They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maids 
Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing; 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kiss'd  the  strings, 
20       Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round: 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound; 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odours  from  his  dewy  wings. 

25  O  Music!  sphere-descended  maid, 

Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid! 

Why,  goddess!  why,  to  us  denied, 

Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside? 

As  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower 
30  You  learn'd  an  all-commanding  power, 

Thy  mimic  soul,  O  Nymph  endear'd, 

Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 

Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart 

Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art? 
35  Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time, 

Warm,  energic,  chaste,  sublime! 

Thy  wonders,  in  that  god-like  age, 

Fill  thy  recording  Sister's  page; — 

'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 
40  Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail, 


214  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxxviii 

Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age: 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found, 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound: — 
5          O  bid  our  vain  endeavours  cease: 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece: 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state! 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate! 

W.  Collins 


CLXXIX 

THE  SONG  OF  DAVID 

He  sang  of  God,  the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things,  the  stupendous  force 

On  which  all  strength  depends: 
From  Whose  right  arm,  beneath  Whose  eyes, 
5  All  period,  power,  and  enterprise 

Commences,  reigns,  and  ends. 

The  world,  the  clustering  spheres  He  made, 
The  glorious  light,  the  soothing  shade, 

Dale,  champaign,  grove  and  hill: 
10  The  multitudinous  abyss, 

Where  secrecy  remains  in  bliss, 

And  wisdom  hidjs  her  skill. 

Tell  them,  I  AM,  Jehovah  said 
To  Moses:  while  Earth  heard  in  dread, 
15  And,  smitten  to  the  heart, 

At  once,  above,  beneath,  around, 
All  Nature,  without  voice  or  sound, 
Replied,  'O  Lord,  THOU  ART.' 

C.  Smart 


4!lxxxi]  Book  Third  215 


INFANT  JOY 

'I  have  no  name; 
I  am  but  two  days  old.' 
—What  shall  I  call  thee? 
'I  happy  am; 
6  Joy  is  my  name.' 

—Sweet  joy  befall  thee! 

Pretty  joy! 

Sweet  joy,  but  two  days  old; 
Sweet  joy  I  call  thee: 
10  Thou  dost  smile: 

I  sing  the  while, 
Sweet  joy  befall  thee! 

W.  Blake 


A  CRADLE  SONG 


Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright, 
Dreaming  in  the  joys  of  night; 
Sleep,  sleep;  in  thy  sleep 
Little  sorrows  sit  and  weep. 

5  Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 

Soft  desires  I  can  trace, 
Secret  joys  and  secret  smiles, 
Little  pretty  infant  wiles. 

As  thy  softest  limbs  I  feel, 
10  Smiles  as  of  the  morning  steal 

O'er  thy  cheek,  and  o'er  thy  breast 
Where  thy  little  heart  doth  rest. 

Oh  the  cunning  wiles  that  creep 
In  thy  little  heart  asleep! 
15  When  thy  little  heart  doth  wake, 

Then  the  dreadful  light  shall  break. 
W.  Blake 


216  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxxxii 


ODE  ON  THE  SPRING 

Lo!  where  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours, 

Fair  Venus'  train,  appear, 
Disclose  the  long-expecting  flowers 
And  wake  the  purple  year! 

5  The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  throat 

Responsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note, 
The  untaught  harmony  of  Spring: 
While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  fly, 
Cool  Zephyrs  thro'  the  clear  blue  sky 

10  Their  gather'd  fragrance  fling. 

Where'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  stretch 

A  broader,  browner  shade, 
Where'er  the  rude  and  moss-grown  beech 
O'er-canopies  the  glade, 

15  Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 

With  me  the  Muse  shall  sit,  and  think 
(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 
How  vain  the  ardour  of  the  crowd, 
How  low,  how  little  are  the  proud, 

20  How  indigent  the  great! 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  Care; 

The  panting  herds  repose: 
Yet  hark,  how  thro'  the  peopled  air 
The  busy  murmur  glows! 

25  The  insect-youth  are  on  the  wing, 

Eager  to  taste  the  honied  spring 
And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon: 
Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim, 
Some  show  their  gaily-gilded  trim 

30  Quick-glancing  to  the  sun. 

To  Contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  Man: 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
35  Alike  the  Busy  and  the  Gay 


cixxxiii]  Book  Third  217 

But  flutter  thro'  life's  little  day,     • 
In  Fortune's  varying  colours  drest: 
Brush' d  by  the  hand  of  rough  Mischance, 
Or  chill'd  by  Age,  their  airy  dance 
5  They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest. 

Methinks  I  hear  in  accents  low 

The  sportive  kind  reply: 
Poor  moralist!  and  what  art  thou? 

A  solitary  fly! 

10  Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets, 

No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets, 
No  painted  plumage  to  display: 
On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  flown; 
Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone — 
15  We  frolic  while  'tis  May. 

T.  Gray 


CLXXXIII 
THE  POPLAR  FIELD 

The  poplars  are  fell'd;  farewell  to  the  shade 
And  the  whispering  sound  of  the  cool  colonnade; 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in  the  leaves, 
Xcr  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image  receives. 

5  Twelve  years  have  elapsed  since  I  first  took  a  view 
Of  my  favourite  field,  and  the  bank  where  they  grew: 
And  now  in  the  grass  behold  they  are  laid, 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat  that  once  lent  me  a  shade! 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  retreat 
10  Where  the  hazels •  afford  him  a  screen  from  the  heat; 
And  the  scene  where  his  melody  charm'd  me  before 
Resounds  with  his  sweet-flowing  ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive  years  are  all  hasting  away, 
And  I  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as  they, 
15  With  a  turf  on  my  breast  and  a  stone  at  my  head, 
Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in  its  stead. 


218  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxxxiii 

The  change  both  my  heart  and  my  fancy  employs; 
I  reflect  on  the  frailty  of  man  and  his  joys: 
Short-lived  as  we  are,  yet  our  pleasures,  we  see, 
Have  a  still  shorter  date,  and  die  sooner  than  we. 

W.  Cowper 


TO  A  MOUSE 

On  turning  her  up  in  her  nest,  with  the 
November,  1785 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie, 

0  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 
Wi'  bickering  brattle! 

1  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 
Wi'  murd'ring  pattle! 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 

Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 

An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 

At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow-mortal! 

I  doubt  na,  whiles,  but  thou  may  thieve; 

What  then?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live! 

A  daimen-icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request: 

I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  lave, 

And  never  miss't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  mini 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin: 
And  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 
O'  foggage  green! 

An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin' 
Baith  snell  an'  keen! 


elxxxv?  Book  Third  219 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 
Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
5  Till,  crash!  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 
10  But  house  or  hald, 

To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble 
An'  cranreuch  cauld! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain: 
15  The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 

An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain, 
For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me! 
20  The  present  only  toucheth  thee: 

But,  Och!  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 
On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 
I  guess  an'  fear! 

R.  Burns 

CLXXXV 
A  WISH 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill; 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear; 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

5  The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 

Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest; 
•Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 


220  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxxxv 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet-gown  and  apron  blue. 

5  The  village-church  among  the  trees, 

Where  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  Heaven. 
S.  Rogers 


ODE  TO  EVENING 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 

May  hope,  O  pensive  Eve,  to  soothe  thine  ear 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales; 

5  O  Nymph  reserved, — while  now  the  bright-hair' d  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 
With  brede  ethereal  wove, 
O'erhang  his  wavy  bed; 

Now  air  is  hush'd,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat 
10  With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing, 
Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum, — 
15  Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  soften'd  strain 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit; 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 
20          Thy  genial  loved  return. 


elxxxvi]  Book  Third  221 

arising  shows 


For  when  thy  folding-star „ 

His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 
The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 
Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 


5  And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with 


And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 
The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene; 
10  Or  find  some  ruin  midst  its  dreary  dells, 
Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 
By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or,  if  chill  blustering  winds  or  driving  rain 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 
15  That,  from  the  mountain's  side, 

Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discover'd  spires; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell;  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  ringers  draw 
20  The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

25  While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves; 
.    Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 
Affrights  thy  shrinking  train 
And  rudely  rends  thy  robes  ;\ 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 
30  Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 
Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 
And  love  thy  favourite  name! 

W.  Collins 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxxxvii 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

5  Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight. 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
10  The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 
15  Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  mom. 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
20  No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

25  Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
30  Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 
Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor, 


clxxxvii]  Book  Third  223 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave 
Awaits  alike  th'  inevitable  hour: — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

5  Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 
10  Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 
15  Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  extasy  the  living  lyre: 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll; 
Chill  penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
20  And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear: 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

2.5  Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
30  The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes 

Their  lot  forbad:  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 
35  Forbad  to  wade  thro'  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind; 


224  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxxxvii 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

5  Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray; 
Along  the  cool  sequeoter'd  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenour  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 
10  Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 
15  And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
20  Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

35  For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonour'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 
If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  enquire  thy  fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
30  'Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the   Deep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawrn; 

'There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
35  His  listless  length  at  noon-tide  would  he  stretch. 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 


clxxxviii]  Book  Third  225 

'Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove; 
Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

5  'One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the- custom'd  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree; 
Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he; 

'The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 
10  Slow  through  the  church- way  path  we  saw  him  borne, — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.' 

THE   EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 

A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown; 

15  Fair  science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth 

And  melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere; 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 
He  gave  to  misery  (all  he  had)  a  tear, 
20  He  gain'd  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

T.  Gray 

CLXXXVIII 

MARY  MORISON 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 
It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trysted  hour! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see 
That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor: 
5  How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 
The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 


226  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [clxxxviii 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, — 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw: 
5  Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 
'Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison.' 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 
10  Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown; 
15  A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 

R.  Burns 


BONNIE  LESLEY 

O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border? 

She's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

5  To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 

And  love  but  her  for  ever; 
For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  ne'er  made  sic  anither! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  Fair  Lesley, 
10  Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee; 

Thou  art  divine,  Fair  Lesley, 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  Deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee; 
15  He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 

And  say  'I  canna  wrang  thee!' 


cxci]  Book  Third  227 

The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  thee; 

Misfortune  sha'  na  steer  thee; 
Thou'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

5  Return  again,  Fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonia! 
That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 
There's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 

R.  Burns 


O  my  Luve's  like  a  red.  red  rose 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June: 

0  my  Luve's  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

6          As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  arn  I: 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry: 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
10  And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun; 

1  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  Luvei 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile! 
16  And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

R,  Burns 

cxci 
HIGHLAND  MARY 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie! 


228  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxci 

There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

6  How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp' d  her  to  my  bosom! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 
10  Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 

For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 
Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
15  And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder; 
But,  Oh!  fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 
20  That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly; 
25  And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 
Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

R.  Burns 


cxcn 
AULD  ROBIX  GRAY 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  a  name, 
And  a'  the  warld  to  rest  are  gane, 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  e'e, 
While  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 


cxcii]  Book  Third  229 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  well,  and  sought  me  for  his 

bride; 

But  saving  a  croun  he  had  naething  else  beside: 
To  make  the  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie  gaed  to  sea; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me. 

6  He  hadna  been  awa'  a  week  but  only  twa, 

When   my   father   brak   his   arm,   and   the    cow   was 

stown  awa; 

My  mother  she  fell  sick,  and  my  Jamie  at  the  sea — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courtin'  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother  couldna  spin; 

10  I  toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  couldna  win; 

Auld  Rob  maintain'd  them  baith,  and  wi'  tears  in  his 

e'e 
Said,  Jennie,  for  their  sakes,  O,  marry  me! 

My  heart  it  said  nay;  I  look'd  for  Jamie  back; 

But  the  wind  it  blew  high,   and  the  ship  it  was  a 

wrack; 

15  His  ship  it  was  a  wrack — why  didna  Jamie  dee? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  cry,  Wae's  me? 

My  father  urgit  sair:  my  mother  didna  speak; 

But  she  look'd  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to 

break: 

They  gi'ed  him  my  hand,  but  my  heart  was  at  the  sea; 
20  Sae  auld  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 
When  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  the  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  couldna  think  it  he 
Till  he  said,  I'm  come  hame  to  marry  thee. 

25  O  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  did  we  say; 
We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  I  bad  him  gang  away; 
I  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  no  like  to  dee; 
And  why  was  I  born  to  say,  Wae's  me! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin; 
30  I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin; 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aye  to  be, 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  he  is  kind  unto  me. 

Lady  A.  Lindsay 


230  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxciii 


DUNCAN  GRAY 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't; 
On  Wythe  Yule  right  wyhen  we  were  fou, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't: 
5  Maggie  coost  her  head  iu'  high, 

Look'd  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't! 

Duncan  fleech'd,  and  Duncan  pray'd; 
10  Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig; 

Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat  his  een  baith  bleer't  and  blin' 
Spak  o'  lowpin  ower  a  linn! 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 
15  Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide; 

Shall  I,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he, 
For  a  haughty  hizzie  dee? 
She  may  gae  to — France  for  me! 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 
20  Meg  grew  sick — as  he  grew  well; 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings; 
And  O,  her  een,  they  spak  sic  thingsl 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace; 
25  Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case; 

Duncan  couldna  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath; 
Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith: 

Ha,  ha.  the  wooing  o't!  -x 

R.  Burns 


cxciv]  Book  Third  231 

cxciv 
THE  SAILOR'S  WIFE 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true? 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark? 

Ye  jades,  lay  by  your  wheel; 
5  Is  this  the  time  to  spin  a  thread, 

When  Colin's  at  the  door? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I'll  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 
10  There's  nae  luck  at  a'; 

There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet, 
My  bishop's  satin  gown; 
15  For  I  maun  tell  the  baillie's  wife 

That  Colin's  in  the  town. 
My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on, 

My  stockins  pearly  blue; 
It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman, 
20  For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Rise,  lass,  and  mak  a  clean  fireside. 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat; 
25  And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes., 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  long  awa. 

There's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  coop 
30  Been  fed  this  month  and  mair; 

Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare; 
And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw, 
35  For  \vha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa? 


232  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxciv 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair — 
5  And  will  I  see  his  face  again? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet! 

If  Colin's  weel,  and  weel  content, 
10  I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave: 

And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae, 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave: 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again, 
And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
15  I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a'; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 
20  When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

W.  J.  Mickle 


ABSENCE 

When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 
I  spent  wi'  you,  my  dearie; 

And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie, 
How  can  I  be  but  eerie! 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours, 
As  ye  were  wae  and  weary! 

It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by 
When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 

Anon. 


cxcvi]  Book  Third  233 

cxcvi 
JEAN 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 

I  dearly  like  the  West, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best: 
5  There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  rnony  a  hill  between; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  \vi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 
10  I  see  her  sweet  and  fair: 

I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air: 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 
15  There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

O  blaw  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saft 

Amang  the  leafy  trees; 
Wi'  balmy  gale,  frae  hill  and  dale 
20  Bring  hame  the  laden  bees; 

And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 

That's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean; 
Ae  smile  o'  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

25  What  sighs  and  vows  amang  the  knowes 

Hae  pass'd  at  ween  us  twa! 
How  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part 

That  night  she  gaed  awa! 
The  Powers  aboon  can  only  ken 
30  To  whom  the  heart  is  seen, 

That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 
As  my  sweet  lovely  Jean! 

R.  Burns 


234  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [CXGYIB 

CXCVII 

JOHN  ANDERSON 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent; 
5  But  now  your  brow  is  bald,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snow; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
10  We  clamb  the  hill  thegither, 

And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 

Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  wre'll  go, 
15  And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

R.  Burns 


THE  LAND  O'  THE  LEAL 

I'm  wearing  awa',  Jean, 

Like  snaw  when  its  thaw,  Jean, 

I'm  wearing  awa' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
5  There's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 

There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Ye  were  aye  leal  and  true,  Jean, 
10  Your  task's  ended  noo,  Jean, 

And  I'll  welcome  you 
To  the  land  o'  the  leal, 


cxcix]  Book  Third  235 

Our  bonnie  bairn's  there,  Jean, 
She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  Jean; 
O  \ve  grudged  her  right  sair 
To  the  land  o'  the  leal! 

5  Then  dry  that  tearfu'  e'e,  Jean, 

My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean, 
And  angels  wait  on  me 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean, 
10  This  warld's  care  is  vain,  Jean; 

We'll  meet  and  aye  be  fain 
In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Lady  Nairn 


ODE  OX  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF 
ETON  COLLEGE 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers 

That  crown  the  watery  glade, 
Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade; 
5       And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 

Of  "Windsor's  heights  th'  expanse  below 
Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey, 
Whose  turfr  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 
10  His  silver- winding  way: 

Ah  happy  hills!  ah  pleasing  shade! 

Ah  fields  beloved  in  vain! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray'd, 
A  stranger  yet  to  pain! 

15       I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 
As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 

20  To  breathe  a  second  spring. 


236  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cxcix 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace; 
5  Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 

With  pliant  arm,  thy  glassy  wave? 
The  captive  linnet  which  enthral? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed 
10  Or  urge  the  flying  ball? 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent 
Their  murmuring  labours  ply 

'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty: 
15  Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 

The  limits  of  their  little  reign 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry: 

Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 

They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 
20  And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 
Less  pleasing  when  possest; 

The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast: 
25          Theirs  buxom  health,  of  rosy  hue, 

Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new, 

And  lively  cheer,  of  vigour  born; 

The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 

The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light 
30  That  fly  th'  approach  of  morn. 

Alas!  regardless  of  their  doom 

The  little  victims  play; 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come 
Nor  care  beyond  to-day: 

35  Yet  see  how  all  around  'em  wait 

The  ministers  of  human  fate 
And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train! 
Ah  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous  band! 

40  Ah,  tell  them  they  are  men! 


cxcix]  Book  Third  237 

These  shall  the  fury  Passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame  that  sculks  behind; 
5  Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth, 

Or  Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth 
That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart, 
And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visaged  comfortless  Despair, 
10  And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice 
And  grinning  Infamy. 

15  The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try 

And  hard  Unkindness'  alter'd  eye, 
That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow; 
And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defiled, 
And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 

20  Amid  severest  woe. 

Lo,  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 
A  griesly  troop  are  seen, 

The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen: 
25  This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins, 

That  every  labouring  sinew  strains, 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage: 

Lo!  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band, 

That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 
30  And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  sufferings:  all  are  men, 
Condemn'd  alike  to  groan; 

The  tender  for  another's  pain, 

Th'  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
35  Yet,  ah!  wrhy  should  they  know  their  fate, 

Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies? 

Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 

No  more; — where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
«0  'Tis  folly  to  be  wise.  T.  Gray 


23  S  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  fee 


THE  SHRUBBERY 

O  happy  shades!  to  rre  unblest! 

Friendly  to  peace,  but  not  to  me  I 
How  ill  the  scene  that  offers  rest, 

And  heart  that  cannot  rest,  agree! 
5  This  glassy  stream,  that  spreading  pine, 

Those  alders  quivering  to  the  breeze, 
Might  soothe  a  soul  less  hurt  than  rrine, 

And  please,  if  anything  could  please. 
But  fix'd  unalterable  Care 
10  Foregoes  not  what  she  feels  within, 

Shows  the  same  sadness  everywhere, 

And  slights  the  season  and  the  scene. 
For  all  that  pleased  in  wood  or  lawn 

While  Peace  possess'-1,  these  silent  bowe •«• 
15  Her  animating  smile  withdrawn, 

Has  lost  its  beauties  and  its  powers. 
The  saint  or  moralist  should  tread 

This  moss-grown  alley,  musing,  slow, 
They  seek  like  me  the  secret  shade, 
20  But  not,  like  me,  to  nourish  woe! 

Me,  fruitful  scenes  and  prospects  waste 

Alike  admonish  not  to  roam; 
These  tell  me  of  enjoyments  past, 

And  those  of  sorrows  yet  to  come. 

W.  Cowper 

cci 
HYMN  TO  ADVERSITY 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power, 
Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 
Whose  iron  scourge  and  torturing  hour 

The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best! 
5          Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain 

The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain, 
And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 
With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied  and  alone. 


*ci]  Book  Third  239 

When  first  thy  Sire  to  send  on  earth 
Virtue,  his  darling  child,  design'd, 
To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth 

And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 
6       Stern,  rugged  nurse!  thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore; 
What  sorrow  was,  thou  bad'st  her  know, 
And  from  her  own  she  learn'd  to  melt  at  others'  woe. 

Scared  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly, 
10  Self-pleasing  Folly's  idle  brood, 

Wild  Laughter,  Noise,  and  thoughtless  Joy, 

And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 
Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go 
The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe; 
15       By  vain  Prosperity  received, 

To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again  believed. 
Wisdom  in  sable  garb  array'd 

Immersed  in  rapturous  thought  profound, 
And  Melancholy,  silent  maid, 
20  With  leaden  eye,  that  loves  the  ground, 

Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend: 
Warm  Charity,  the  general  friend, 
With  Justice,  to  herself  severe, 
And  Pity  dropping  soft  the  sadly-pleasing  tear. 
25      Oh!  gently  on  thy  suppliant's  head 

Dread  goddess,  lay  thy  chastening  hand' 
Not  in  thy  Gorgon  terrors  clad, 

Nor  circled  with  the  vengeful  band 
(As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen) 
30       With  thundering  voice,  and  threatening  mien, 

With  screaming  Horror's  funeral  cry, 
Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly  Poverty; — 
Thy  form  benign,  oh  goddess,  wear, 

Thy  milder  influence  impart, 
35       Thy  philosophic  train  be  there 

To  soften,  not  to  wound  my  heart. 
The  generous  spark  extinct  revive, 
Teach  me  to  love  and  to  forgive, 
Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan, 

40  What  others  are  to  feel,  and  know  myself  a  Man. 

T.  Gray 


240  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccii 


THE  SOLITUDE  OF 
ALEXANDER  SELKIRK 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey; 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute; 
From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 
5          O  Solitude!  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face? 
Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms, 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

I  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 
10  I  must  finish  my  journey  alone, 

Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech; 

I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 

The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain 

My  form  with  indifference  see; 
15  They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  Friendship,  and  Love 
Divinely  bestow'd  upon  man, 
Oh,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove 
20          How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again! 
My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 
In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth, 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 
And  be  cheer'd  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

25        .  Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 
Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 
Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more: 
My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

20  A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me? 

O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 
Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 


cciii]  Book  Third  241 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind! 
Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 
And  the  swift-winged  arrows  of  light. 
5  When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land 

In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there; 
But  alas!  recollection  at  hand 
Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 
10  The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair; 

Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 

And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 

There's  mercy  in  every  place, 

And  mercy,  encouraging  thought! 
15  Gives  even  affliction  a  grace 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 

W.  Cowper 


TO  MARY  UNWIN 

Mary!  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings, 

Such   aid   from   Heaven   as   some   have   feign'd  they 

drew, 

An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things, 
5  That  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings 
I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honour  due, 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings: — 
But  thou  hast  little  need.     There  is  a  Book 
10  By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light, 
On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 
A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright — 
There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine; 
And  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mine. 

W.  Cowper 


242  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cciv 


TO  THE  SAME 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast; 
Ah  would  that  this  might  be  the  last! 
My  Mary! 

5          Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow  —  • 
'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 
My  Mary! 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
10  For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 

Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more; 
My  Mary! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
15          Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 
My  Mary! 

But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's  part, 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 
My  Mary! 


Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  utter'  d  in  a  drea 
' 


Like  language  utter'  d  in  a  dream; 

Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme 


My  Mary! 


25  Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 

Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 
My  Mary! 

For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
30  What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see? 

The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 
My  Mary! 


ccv]  Book  Third  243 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign; 
Yet,  gently  prest,  press  gently  mine, 
My  Mary! 

5  Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov'st 

That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov'st 
Upheld  by  two;  yet  still  thou  lov'st, 
My  Mary! 

And  still  to  love,  though  prest  with  ill, 
10  In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 

With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 
My  Mary! 

But  ah!  by  constant  heed  I  know 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
15  Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 

My  Mary! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last — 
20  My  Mary! 

•     W.  Cowper 

ccv 
THE  CASTAWAY 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky, 

The  Atlantic  billows  roar'd, 
When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 

Wash'd  headlong  from  on  board, 
5  Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 

His  floating  home  for  ever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast 

Than  he  with  whom  he  went, 
Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast 
10  With  warmer  washes  sent. 

He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain, 
Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 


244  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccv 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine, 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay; 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away; 

5  But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 

Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted:  nor  his  friends  had  fail'd 

To  check  the  vessel's  course, 
But  so,  the  furious  blast  prevail'd, 
10  That,  pitiless  perforce, 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind. 
And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succour  yet  they  could  afford; 

And  such  as  storms  allow, 
15          The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord, 

Delay'd  not  to  bestow. 
But  he  (they  knew)  nor  ship  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seem'd,  could  he 
20  Their  haste  himself  condemn, 

Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 

Alone  could  rescue  them; 
Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 
Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

25  He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self -upheld; 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  repell'd; 
And  ever,  as  the  minutes  flew, 
30          Entreated  help,  or  cried  'Adieu!' 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 

His  comrades,  who  before 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast, 

Could  catch  the  sound  no  more* 
35  For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 

The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 


ccvi]  Book  Third  245 

No  poet  wept  him;  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere, 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear: 
5  And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 

Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 
I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate, 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 
10  A  more  enduring  date: 

But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 
No  voice  divine  the  storm  allay 'd, 

No  light  propitious  shone, 
15  When,  snatch' d  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perish'd,  each  alone: 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea, 
And  whelm'd  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 

W.  Cowper 


TOMORROW 

In  the  downhill  of  life,  when  I  find  I'm  declining, 

May  my  fate  no  less  fortunate  be 
Than  a  snug  elbow-chair  will  afford  for  reclining, 

And  a  cot  that  o'erlooks  the  wide  sea; 
5  With  an  ambling  pad-pony  to  pace  o'er  the  lawn, 

While  I  carol  away  idle  sorrow, 
And  blithe  as  the  lark  that  each  day  hails  the  dawn 

Look  forward  with  hope  for  Tomorrow. 

With  a  porch  at  my  door,  both  for  shelter  and  shade 

too, 
10       As  the  sunshine  or  rain  may  prevail; 

And  a  small  spot  of  ground  for  the  use  of  the  spade 

too, 

With  a  barn  for  the  use  of  the  flail: 
A  cow  for  my  dairy,  a  dog  for  my  game, 

And  a  purse  when  a  friend  wants  to  borrow; 
15  I'll  envy  no  Nabob  his  riches  or  fame, 

Or  what  honours  may  wait  him  Tomorrow. 


246  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccvi 

From  the  bleak  northern  blast  may  my  cot  be  com- 
pletely 

Secured  by  a  neighboring  hill; 
And  at  night  may  repose  steal  upon  me  more  sweetly 

By  the  sound  of  a  murmuring  rill: 
5  And  while  peace  and  plenty  I  find  at  my  board, 

With  a  heart  free  from  sickness  and  sorrow, 
With  my  friends  may  I  share  what  Today  may  afford, 
And  let  them  spread  the  table  Tomorrow. 

And  when  I  at  last  must  throw  off  this  frail  cov'ring 
10       Which  I've  worn  for  three  score  years  and  ten, 
On  the  brink  of  the  grave  I'll  not  seek  to  keep  hov'r- 

mg> 

Nor  my  thread  wish  to  spin  o'er  again: 
But  my  face  in  the  glass  I'll  serenely  survey, 

And  with  smiles  count  each  wrinkle  and  furrow; 
15  As  this  old  worn-out  stuff,  which  is  threadbare  Today, 
May  become  Everlasting  Tomorrow. 

J.  Collins 


Life!  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met 
I  own  to  me's  a  secret  yet. 

5      Life!  we've  been  long  together 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather; 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear — 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear; 
— Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 
10      Choose  thine  own  time; 

Say  not  Good  Night, — but  in  some  brighter  clime 
Bid  me  Good  Morning. 
*  A.  L.  Barbauld 


JFourt!) 


TO  THE  MUSES 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow, 
Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 

The  chambers  of  the  sun,  that  now 
From  ancient  melody  have 


5  Whether  in  Heaven  ye  wander  fair, 

Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth, 
Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air, 

Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth; 

Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove 
10  Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove, — 

Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry; 
How  have  you  left  the  ancient  love 
That  bards  of  old  enjoy'd  in  you! 
15  The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move, 

The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few. 
W.  Blake 

CCIX 

ODE  ON  THE  POETS 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new? 
247 


248  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

— Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wond'rous 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous; 
5  With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 

And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 

10          Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  trance'd  thing, 

15  But  divine  melodious  truth; 

Philosophic  numbers  smooth; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 

20          On  the  earth  ye  live  again; 

And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 

25  Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 

To  mortals,  of  their  little  week; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame; 

30     '      What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim: — 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
35  Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 

Double-lived -in  reeions  new! 

J.  Keats 


ccxi]  Book  Fourth  249 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S 
HOMER 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
5  Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow' d  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne: 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold: 
— Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
10  When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

J.  Keats 


CCXI 

LOVE 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve! 


250  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxd 

She  lean'd  against  the  arm6d  man, 
The  statue  of  the  arm£d  knight; 
She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

&          Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope!  my  joy!  my  Gene  vie  ve! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
10          I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace; 
15  For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 

But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 
20  The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined:  and  ah! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

25  She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 

WTith  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
30          That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shadej 
35          And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 


ccxi]  Book  Fourth  251 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend. 
This  miserable  Knight! 

ft          And  that  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land; — 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasp'd  his  knees;  • 
10  And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 

And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain; — 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave, 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
15  When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 

A  dying  man  he  lay; — 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach'd 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
20  Disturb' d  her  soul  with  pity! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrill' d  my  guileless  Genevieve; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve; 

25          And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherish' d  long! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
30  She  blush'd  with  love,  and  virgin  shame; 

And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepp'd  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
H5  Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 

She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 


252  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxi 

She  half  inclosed  me  with  her  aims, 
She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

5          'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
10  And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride; 

And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 

S.  T.  Coleridge 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 

O  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty. 

5  What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow  that  is 

wrinkled? 

'Tis  but  as  a  dead  flower  with  May-dew  besprinkled: 
Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is  hoary — 
What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only  give  glory? 

0  Fame! — if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 

10  'Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding  phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found  thee; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  thee; 
15  When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  my 
story, 

1  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 

Lord  Byron 


ccxiii]  Book  Fourth  253 

CCXIII 

THE  OUTLAW 

0  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green, 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 

Would  grace  a  summer-queen. 
5  And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton-Hall 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  Maiden  on  the  castle-wall 

Was  singing  merrily: 
*O  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
10  And  Greta  woods  are  green; 

I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign  our  English  queen.' 

'If,  Maiden,  thou.wou'dst  wend  with  me, 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
15          Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down. 
And  it  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 
As  read  iull  well  you  may,          4 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed 
20  As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May.' 

Yet  sung  she,  'Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 
Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

25  'I  read  you,  by  your  bugle-horn 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 

1  read  you  for  a  ranger  sworn 
To  keep  the  king's  greenwood.' 

'A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 
30  And  'tis  at  peep  of  light; 

His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night.' 
Yet  sung  she,  'Brignall  banks  are  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay; 
35  I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May! 


254  Palgrave*$  Golden  Treasury  [ccxiii 

'With  burnish' d  brand  and  musketoon 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum.' 
5  '  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 
And  O!  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair 
.  10  And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 

Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May  I 

'Maiden!  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die; 
15          The  fiend  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead 

Were  better  mate  than  I! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, — 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 
30  Nor  think  what  we  are  now.' 


Chorus 

'Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 

Would  grace  a  summer-queen.' 

Sir  W.  Scott 


There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  Thee; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me: 
When,  as  if  its  sounds  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing, 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lull'd  winds  seem  dreaming: 


ccxv]  Book  Fourth  255> 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 

Ker  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep, 
Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving 

As  an  infant's  asleep: 
5  So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee 

To  listen  and  adore  thee; 
With  a  full  but  soft  emotion, 
Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 

Lord  Byron 


ccxv 
THE  INDIAN  SERENADE 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  Thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright: 
5  I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me — who  knows  how? 
To  thy  chamber- window,  Sweet! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
10  On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 

The  champak  odours  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream; 

The  nightingale's  complaint 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
15  As  I  must  die  on  thine 

0  beloved  as  thou  art! 

Oh  lift  me  from  the  grass! 

1  die,  I  faint,  I  fail! 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
20  On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 

My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alast 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast; 
Oh!  press  it  close  to  thine  again 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

P.  B.  Shelle* 


256  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxvi 


She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies, 
And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes; 
5  Thus  mellow' d  to  that  tender  light 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair' d  the  nameless  grace 
Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress 
10  Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face, 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek  and  o'er  that  brow 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
15  The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, — 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

Lord  Byron 


She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleam' d  upon  my  sight; 
A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 
5          Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair; 

Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
10  To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty; 


ccxviii]  Book  Fourth  257 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food, 
5  For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 

A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
10  A  traveller  between  life  and  death: 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 

A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  plann'd 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
15  And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  an  angel-light. 

W.  Wordsworth 


CCXVIII 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

As  many  maidens  be; 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me. 
O  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold, 

To  mine  they  ne'er  reply, 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 

The  love-light  in  her  eye: 
Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 

H.  Coleridge 


"258  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxix 


I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden; 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine; 
My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 
Ever  to  burthen  thine. 

I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion; 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine; 
Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 
With  which  I  worship  thine. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove; 

A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 
And  very  few  to  love. 

5  A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half-hidden  from  the  eye! 
— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
10  When  Lucy  ceased  to  be; 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 
The  difference  to  me! 

'  W.  Wordsworth 


1  travell'd  among  unknown  men 
In  lands  beyond  the  sea; 

Nor,  England!  did  I  know  till  then 
What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 


ccxxii]  Book  Fourth  259 

'Tis  past,  that  melancholy  dream! 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time;  for  still  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

5  Among  thy  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire; 
And  she  I  cherish'd  turn'd  her  wheel 
Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  show'd,  thy  nights  conceal'd 
10  The  bowers  where  Lucy  playM; 

And  thine  too  is  the  last  green  field 
That  Lucy's  eyes  survey'd. 

W.  Wordsworth 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  NATURE 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower; 

Then  Nature  said,  'A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown: 

This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take; 

She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

'Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse:  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

'She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs; 
And  her's  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  her's  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 


260  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxxil 

'The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her;  for  her  the  willow  bend; 
Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Ev'n  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
6          Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

'The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 
In  many  a  secret  place 

10  Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 
Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

'And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 
15  Her  virgin  bosom  swell; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell.' 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 
20          How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run! 
She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 
And  never  more  will  be. 

W.  Wordsworth 


A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal; 

I  had  no  human  fears: 
She  seem'd  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees; 
Roll'd  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 
W.  Wordsworth 


ccxxvj  Book  Fourth  261 

CCXXIV 

A  LOST  LOVE 

I  meet  thy  pensive,  moonlight  face; 

Thy  thrilling  voice  I  hear; 
And  former  hours  and  scenes  retrace, 

Too  fleeting,  and  too  dear! 

5      Then  sighs  and  tears  flow  fast  and  free, 

Though  none  is  nigh  to  share; 
And  life  has  nought  beside  for  me 
So  sweet  as  this  despair. 

There  are  crush'd  hearts  that  will  not  break; 
10  And  mine,  methinks,  is  one; 

Or  thus  I  should'  not  weep  and  wake, 
And  thou  to  slumber  gone. 

I  little  thought  it  thus  could  be 

In  days  more  sad  and  fair — 
15      That  earth  could  have  a  place  for  me, 
And  thou  no  longer  there. 

Yet  death  cannot  our  hearts  divide, 

Or  make  thee  less  my  own: 
'Twere  sweeter  sleeping  at  thy  side 
20          Than  watching  here  alone. 

Yet  never,  never  can  we  part, 

While  Memory  holds  her  reign: 
Thine,  thine  is  still  this  wither'd  heart, 

Till  we  shall  meet  again. 

H.  F.  Lyte 

ccxxv 
LORD  VLLIN'S  DAUGHTER 

A  Chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 
Cries  'Boatman,  do  not  tarry! 
And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferrvl' 


262  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxxv 

'Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water?' 
'O  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this,  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 

5  'And  fast  before  her  father's  men 

Three  days  we've  fled  together, 
For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

'His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride — 
10  Should  they  our  steps  discover, 

Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride, 
When  they  have  slain  her  lover?' 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 
'I'll  go,  my  chief,  I'm  ready: 
15  It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 

But  for  your  winsome  lady: — 

'And  by  my  word!  the  bonny  bird 
In  danger  shall  not  tarry; 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white 
20  I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry.' 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 
The  water- wraith  was  shrieking; 
And  in  the  scowl  of  Heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

25  But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 

And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 
Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

'O  haste  thee,  haste!'  the  lady  cries. 
30  'Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 

I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father.' 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 
A  stormy  sea  before  her, — 

35  When,  oh!  too  strong  for  human  hand 

The  tempest  gather'd  o'er  her. 


ccxxvi]  Book  Fourth  263 

And  still  they  row'd  amidst  the  roar 
Of  waters  fast  prevailing: 
Lord  Ullin  reach'd  that  fatal  shore, — 
His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

5  For,  sore  dismay'd,  through  storm  and  shade 

His  child  he  did  discover: — 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretch' d  for  aid, 
And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

'Come  back!  come  back!'  he  cried  in  grief 
10  'Across  this  stormy  water: 

And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 
My  daughter! — Oh,  my  daughter!' 

'Twas  vain:  the  loud  waves  lash'd  the  shore, 
Return  or  aid  preventing: 
15  The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

T.  Campbell 

CCXXVI 

LUCY  GRAY 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray: 
And  when  I  cross'd  the  wild, 
I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

fi  No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew; 

She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 
10  The  hare  upon  the  green; 

But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 

'To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night — 
You  to  the  town  must  go; 
15  And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light 

Your  mother  through  the  snow.' 


264  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxxvi 

'That,  Father!  will  I  gladly  do: 
Tis  scarcely  afternoon — 
The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 
And  yonder  is  the  moon!' 

5  At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 

And  snapp'd  a  faggot-band; 
He  plied  his  work; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe: 
10  With  many  a  wanton  stroke 

Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time: 
She  wander' d  up  and  down; 
15  And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb: 

But  never  reach' d  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
20          To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  day-break  on  a  hill  they  stood 
That  overlook 'd  the  moor; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood 
A  furlong  from  their  door. 

25  They  wept — and,  turning  homeward,  cried 

In  heaven  we 'all  shall  meet!' 
— When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downward  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
30  They  track'd  the  footmarks  small; 

And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge 
And  by  the  long  stone  wall: 

And  then  an  open  field  they  cross'd: 
The  marks  were  still  the  same; 
85  They  track'd  them  on,  nor  ever  lost; 

And  to  the  bridge  they  came: 


ccxxvii]  Book  Fourth  265 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank; 
And  further  there  were  none! 

5          — Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  child; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
10  And  never  looks  behind; 

And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

— W.  Wordsworth. 


CCXXVII 

JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN 

'Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide? 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride: 
5  And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen' — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 
For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

'Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 
10  And  dry  that  cheek  co  pale; 

Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen' — 
15  But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

'A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair, 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 
20  Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair; 


266  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxxvii 

And  you  the  foremost  o'  them  a' 

Shall  ride  our  forest-queen' — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

5          The  kirk  was  deck'd  at  morning-tide. 

The  tapers  glimmer'd  fair; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there: 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha': 
10  The  ladie  was  not  seen! 

She's  o'er  the  Border,  and  awa' 
Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

Sir  W,  Scott 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 
And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean, 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 
With  a  sweet  emotion; 
5  Nothing  in  the  world  is  single, 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle — 
Why  not  I  with  thine? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven 
10  And  the  waves  clasp  one  another; 

No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 
If  it  disdain'd  its  brother: 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 
And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea — 
15  Wh^k  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 

If  thou  kiss  not  me? 

P.  B.  Shelley 


ccxxx]  Book  Fourth  267 


ECHOES 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 
To  Music  at  night 

When,  roused  by  lute  or  horn,  she  wakes, 
And  far  away  o'er  lawns  and  lakes 
5  Goes  answering  light! 

Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far 
And  far  more  sweet 

Than  e'er,  beneath  the  moonlight's  star, 
Of  horn  or  lute  or  soft  guitar 
10          The  songs  repeat. 

'Tis  when  the  sigh, — in  youth  sincere 
And  only  then, 

The  sigh  that's  breathed  for  one  to  hear — 
Is  by  that  one,  that  only  Dear 
15          Breathed  back  again. 

T.  Moore 


A  SERENADE 

Ah!  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange-flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
5  The  lark,  his  lay  who  thrill'd  all  day, 

Sits  hush'd  his  partner  nigh; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade 
10  Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear; 

To  Beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 
Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxxx 

The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above, 
Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky, 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know — • 
But  where  is  County  Guy? 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR 

Gem  of  the  crimson-colour'd  Even, 
Companion  of  retiring  day, 
Why  at  the  closing  gates  of  heaven, 
Beloved  Star,  dost  thou  delay? 

5  So  fair  thy  pensile  beauty  burns 

When  soft  the  tear  of  twilight  flows; 
So  due  thy  plighted  love  returns 
To  chambers  brighter  than  the  rose; 

To  Peace,  to  Pleasure,  and  to  Love 
10  So  kind  a  star  thou  seem'st  to  be, 

Sure  some  enamour'd  orb  above 
Descends  and  burns  to  meet  with  thee. 

Thine  is  the  breathing,  blushing  hour 
When  all  unheavenly  passions  fly, 
15  Chased  by  the  soul-subduing  power 

Of  Love's  delicious  witchery. 

O!  sacred  to  the  fall  of  day 
Queen  of  propitious  stars,  appear, 
And  early  rise,  and  long  delay, 
20  When  Caroline  herself  is  here! 

Shine  on  her  chosen  green  resort 
Whose  trees  the  sunward  summit  crown, 
And  wanton  flowers,  that  well  may  court 
An  angel's  feet  to  tread  them  down: — 

25  Shine  on  her  sweetly  scented  road 

Thou  star  of  evening's  purple  dome, 
That  lead'st  the  nightingale  abroad, 
And  guid'st  the  pilgrim  to  his  home. 


ccxxxii]  Book  Fourth  269 

Shine  where  my  charmer's  sweeter  breath 
Embalms  the  soft  exhaling  dew, 
Where  dying  winds  a  sigh  bequeath 
To  kiss  the  cheek  of  rosy  hue:— 

5  Where,  winnow'd  by  the  gentle  air, 

Her  silken  tresses  darkly  flow 
And  fall  upon  her  brow  so  fair. 
Like  shadows  on  the  mountain  snow. 

Thus,  ever  thus,  at  day's  decline 
10  In  converse  sweet  to  wander  far — 

O  bring  with  thee  my  Caroline, 
And  thou  shalt  be  my  Ruling  Star! 

T.  CampbeU 

CCXXXII 

TO  THE  NIGHT 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
5       Thou  wo  vest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray 

Star-inwrought ; 

10       Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out: 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long-sought! 

15       When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 
I  sigh'd  for  thee; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  tum'd  to  his  rest 
20       Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 
I  sigh'd  for  thee. 


270  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxxxii 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried 

Wouldst  thou  me? 

Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd  like  a  noon-tide  bee 
5          Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 

Wouldst  thou  me?— And  I  replied 
No,  not  thee! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 

10  Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 

Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night- 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 
Come  soon,  soon! 

P.  B.  Shelley 


TO  A  DISTANT  FRIEND 

Why  art  thou  silent?     Is  thy  love  a  plant 
Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 
Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair? 
Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant? 
5  Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant, 
Bound  to  thy  service  with  unceasing  care — 
The  mind's  least  generous  wish  a  mendicant 
For  nought  but  what  thy  happiness  could  spare. 
Speak! — though  this  soft  warm  heart,  once  free  to 

hold 

10  A  thousand  tender  pleasures,  thine  and  mine, 
Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary  cold 
Than  a  forsaken  bird's-nest  fill'd  with  snow 
'Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglantine — 
Speak,  that  my  torturing  doubts  their  end  may  know! 

W.  Wordsworth 


ccxxxiv]  Book  Fourth  271 


When  we  two  parted 
In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted, 
To  sever  for  years, 

5  Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 
Sorrow  to  this! 

The  dew  of  the  morning 
10  Sunk  chill  on  my  brow; 

It  felt  like  the  warning 
Of  what  I  feel  now, 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 
And  light  is  thy  fame: 
15  I  hear  thy  name  spoken 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 
A  knell  to  mine  ear; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me — 
20  Why  wert  thou  so  dear? 

They  know  not  I  knew  thee 
Who  knew  thee  too  well: 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 
Too  deeply  to  tell. 

25  In  secret  we  met: 

In  silence  I  grieve 
•     That  thy  heart  could  forget, 
Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 
30  After  long  years, 

How  should  I  greet  thee? — 
With  silence  and  tears. 

Lord  Byron 


272  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxxxv 


HAPPY  INSENSIBILITY 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  tree, 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 
Their  green  felicity: 
£  The  north  cannot  undo  them 

With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them, 
Nor  frozen  tha wings  glue  them 
From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
10  Too  happy,  happy  brook, 

Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 

Apollo's  summer  look; 

But  with  a  sweet  forgetting 

They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
15  Never,  never  petting 

About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah!  would  'twere  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy! 
But  were  there  ever  any 
20  Writhed  not  at  passed  joy? 

To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it — 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

J.  Keats 


CCXXXVI 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest 
Whom  the  fates  sever 

From  his  true  maiden's  breast 
Parted  for  ever? 


ccxxxvi]  Book  Fourth  273 

Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high 

Sounds  the  far  billow, 
Where  early  violets  die 

Under  the  willow. 
d  Eleu  loro 

Soft  shall  be  his  pillow. 

There  through  the  summer  day 

Cool  streams  are  laving: 
There,  while  the  tempests  sway, 
10  Scarce  are  boughs  waving; 

There  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  for  ever, 
Never  again  to  wake 

Never,  O  never! 
15  Eleu  loro 

Never,  O  never/ 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest. 

He,  the  deceiver, 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast, 
20  Ruin,  and  leave  her? 

In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dying; 
25  Eleu  loro 

There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 

O'er  the  falsehearted; 
His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap 
30  Ere  life  be  parted: 

Shame  and  dishonour  sit 

By  his  grave  ever; 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it 

Never,  O  never! 
35  Eleu  loro 

Never,  O  never! 

Sir  W.  Scott 


274  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxxxvii 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

'O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering? 
The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lake, 

And  ijo  birds  sing. 

«  'O  what  can  ail  thee    knight-at-arms! 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone? 
The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

'I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 
10  With  anguish  moist  and  fever-dew, 

And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too.' 

'I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 

Full  beautiful — a  faery's  child, 
15  Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 

And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

'I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 
She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
20  And  made  sweet  moan. 

'I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long, 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

25  'She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 

And  honey  wild  and  manna-dew, 
And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said 
"I  love  thee  true." 

'She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 
30  And  there  she  wept  and  sigh'd  full  sore; 

And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 
With  kisses  four. 


ccxxxvfii]  Book  Fourth  275 

'And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dream'd — Ah!  woe  betide! 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

5  'I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all: 
They  cried — "La  belle  Dame  sans  Merci  •' 
Hath  thee  in  thrall  1" 

'I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam 
10  With  horrid  warning  gap6d  wide, 

And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here 

On  the  cold  hill's  side.  . 

'And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 

15          Though  the  sedge  is  wither' d  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing.' 

J,  Keats 


CCXXXVIII 

THE  ROVER 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid,  . 

A  weary  lot  is  thine! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine. 
5  A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green — • 
No  more  of  me  you  knew 

My  Love! 
10  No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

'This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 
The  rose  is  budding  fain; 

But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 
Ere  we  two  meet  again.' 


276  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury          [ccxxxviii 

He  turn'd  bis  charger  as  he  spake 

Upon  the  river  shore, 
He  gave  the  bridal-reins  a  shake, 

Said  'Adieu  for  evermore 
5  My  Love! 

And  adieu  for  evermore.' 

Sir  W.  Scott 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  LOVE 

When  the  lamp  is  shatter'd 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead — • 
When  the  cloud  is  scatter'd, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 
6  When  the  lute  is  broken, 

Sweet  tones  are  remember'd  not; 
When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendour 

10  Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute — 
No  song  but  sad  dirges, 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruin'd  cell, 
15  Or  the  mournful  surges 

That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled, 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest; 
The  weak  one  is  singled 
20  To  endure  what  it  once  possesst. 

O  Love!  who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 
Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier? 


ccxl]  Book  Fourth  277 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee 
As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high; 
Bright  reason  will  mock  thee 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 
5  From  thy  nest  every  rafter 

Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 
Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 
When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


CCXL 

THE  MAID  OF  NEIDPATH 

O  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see, 

And  lovers'  ears  in  hearing; 
And  love,  in  life's  extremity, 

Can  lend  an  hour  of  cheering. 
5  Disease  had  been  in  Mary's  bower 

And  slow  decay  from  mourning, 
Though  now  she  sits  on  Neidpath's  tower 

To  watch  her  Love's  returning. 

All  sunk  and  dim  her  eyes  so  bright, 
10  Her  form  decay'd  by  pining, 

Till  through  her  wasted  hand,  at  night, 

You  saw  the  taper  shining. 
By  fits  a  sultry  hectic  hue 

Across  her  cheek  was  flying; 
15  By  fits  so  ashy  pale  she  grew 

Her  maidens  thought  her  dying. 

Yet  keenest  powers  to  see  and  hear 
Seem'd  in  her  frame  residing; 

Before  the  watch-dog  prick'd  his  ear 
20  She  heard  her  lover's  riding; 

Ere  scarce  a  distant  form  was  kenn'd 
She  knew  and  waved  to  greet  him, 

And  o'er  the  battlement  did  bend 
As  on  the  wing  to  meet  him. 


278  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury    '  [ccxl 

He  came — he  pass'd — an  heedless  gaze 

As  o'er  some  stranger  glancing; 
Her  welcome,  spoke  in  faltering  phrase, 

Lost  in  his  courser's  prancing — 
5  The  castle-arch,  whose  hollow  tone 

Returns  each  whisper  spoken, 
Could  scarcely  catch  the  feeble  moan 
Which  told  her  heart  was  broken. 

Sir  W.  Scott 


Earl  March  look'd  on  his  dying  child, 
And,  smit  with  grief  to  view  her — 

The  youth,  he  cried,  whom  I  exiled 
Shall  be  restored  to  woo  her. 

5  She's  at  the  window  many  an  hour 

His  coming  to  discover: 
And  he  look'd  up  to  Ellen's  bower 
And  she  look'd  on  her  lover — 

But  ah!  so  pale,  he  knew  her  not, 
10  Though  her  smile  on  him  was  dwelling — 

And  am  I  then  forgot — forgot? 
It  broke  the  heart  of  Ellen. 

In  vain  he  weeps,  in  vain  he  sighs, 

Her  cheek  is  cold  as  ashes; 

15  Nor  love's  own  kiss  shall  wake  those  eyes 

To  lift  their  silken  lashes. 

T.  Campbell 


Bright  Star!  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art — 
Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 
Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite. 


ccxliii]  Book  Fourth  279 

The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 
Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 
Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors: — • 
5  No — yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 
Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  Love's  ripening  breast 
To  feel  forever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 
Awake  forever  in  a  sweet  unrest; 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
10  And  so  live  ever, — or  else  swoon  to  death. 

J.  Keats 


ccxLin 
THE  TERROR  OF  DEATH 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 
Before  my  pen  has  glean'd  my  teeming  brain, 
Before  high-piled  books,  in  charact'ry 
Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full-ripen'd  grain; 
5  When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr'd  face, 
Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 
Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of  chance 
And  when  I  feel,  fair  Creature  of  an  hour! 
10  That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more, 
Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 
Of  unreflecting  love — then  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Till  Love  and  Fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 

J.  Keats 


280  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxliv 


CCXLJV 
DESIDERIA 

Surprized  by  joy— impatient  as  the  wind  — 
I  turn'd  to  share  the  transport — Oh!  with  whom 
But  Thee — deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 
That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find? 
5  Love,  faithful  love  recall'd  thee  to  my  mind — 
But  how  could  I  forget  thee?  Through  what  power 
Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour 
Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 
To  my  most  grievous  loss! — That  thought's  return 
10  Was  4he  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore 
Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 
Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more: 
That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 
Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 

W.  Wordsworth 


At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly 
To  the  lone  vale  we  loved,  when  life  shone  warm  in 

thine  eye; 
And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  regions 

of  air 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come  to 

me  there 
6  And  tell  me  our  love  is  remember'd,  even  in  the  sky! 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  it  once  was  rapture  to  hear 
When  our  voices,  commingling,  breathed  like  one  on 

the  ear; 
And  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison 

rolls, 


ccxlvi]  Book  Fourth  281 

I  think,  oh  my  Love!  'tis  thy  voice,  from  the  Kingdom 

of  Souls 
Faintly  answering  still,  the  notes  that  once  were  so 

dear. 

T.  Moore 


CCXLVI 
ELEGY  ON  THYRZA 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth; 
And  forms  so  soft  and  charms  so  rare 

Too  soon  return'd  to  Earth! 
5  Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 

And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth, 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

10          I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot; 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow 

So  I  behold  them  not: 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
15  That  what  I  loved,  and  long  must  love, 

Like  common  earth  can  rot; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell 
'Tis  Nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last, 

20  As  fervently  as  thou 

Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 
The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

25  Nor  falsehood  disavow: 

And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 


282  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxlvi 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine: 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lours, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
5          The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away 
I  might  have  watch'd  through  long  decay. 

10          The  flower  in  ripen 'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away. 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
15          To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  pluck'd  today; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 
20  To  see  thy  beauties  fade; 

The  night  that  follow'd  such  a  morn 
Had  worn  a  deeper  shade: 

Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  past, 

And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last, 
25  Extinguish'd,  not  decay'd; 

As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 

Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed 
30  To  think  I  was  not  near,  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed: 
To  gaze,  how  fondly!  on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head; 
35          And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 

Though  thou  hast  left  me  free. 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain 
40  Than  thus  remember  thee! 


ccxlviii]  Book  Fourth  283 

The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity 

Returns  again  to  me, 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
5  Than  aught  except  its  living  years. 

Lord  Byron 


One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdain'd 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
5  One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love; 
10  But  wilt  thou  accept  not 

The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not: 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
15  The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow? 

P.  B.  Shelley 


CCXLVIII 

GATHERING  SONG  OF  DONALD  THE  BLACK 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 

Pibroch  of  Donuil 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan  Conuil. 


284  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [raxlvui 

Come  away,  come  away, 

Hark  to  the  summons  I 
Come  in  your  war-array, 

Gentles  and  commons. 

5  Come  from  deep  glen,  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky; 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlocky. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 
10  True  heart  that  wears  one, 

Come  every  steel  blade,  and 
Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter; 
15  Leave  the  corpse  uninterr'd, 

The  bride  at  tha  altar; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer. 

Leave  nets  and  barges; 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 
20  Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when 

Forests  are  rended, 
Come  as  the  waves  come,  when 

Navies  are  stranded: 
25  Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come; 
30  See  how  they  gather! 

Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set! 
35  Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 

Knell  for  the  onset! 

Sir  W.  Scott 


ccl]  Book  Fourth  285 


A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast; 
5  And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While  like  the  eagle  free 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

O  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind! 
10  I  heard  a  fair  one  cry; 

But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 
And  white  waves  heaving  high; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free — 
15  The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud; 
But  hark  the  music,  mariners! 
20  The  wind  is  piping  loud; 

The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashes  free — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 
Our  heritage  the  sea. 

A.  Cunningham 


Ye  Mariners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas! 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

lo  match  another  foe: 


286  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccl 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

5  The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave — 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 
And  Ocean  was  their  grave: 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 
10          Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 
And  the  stormy  wintis  do  blow. 

15  Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 
20  She  quells  the  floods  below — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

25          The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn; 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors! 
30          Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

T.  Campbell 


cell]  Book  Fourth  287 

CCLI 
BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 
Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 
When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 
5  And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone; 
By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 
In  a  bold  determined  hand, 
And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

10  Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line: 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime: 
15  As  they  drifted  on  their  path 

There  wras  silence  deep  as  death; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flush'd 
20  To  anticipate  the  scene; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush'd 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

'Hearts  of  oak!'  our  captains  cried,  when  each  gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 
25  Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 

Of  the  sun. 

Again!  again!  again! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 
30  Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom: — 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shatter 'd  sail; 
35  Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 


288  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccli 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then 
As  he  hail'd  them  o'ei  the  wave, 
'Ye  are  brothers!  ye  are  men! 
And  we  conquer  but  to  save: — 
6       So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring: 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  King.' 

10      Then  Denmark  bless'd  our  chief 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day: 
15       While  the  sun  look'd  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise! 
20       For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light; 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 
25       Full  many  a  fathom  deep 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore ! 

Brave  hearts!  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 
10      On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou: 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  Heaven  o'er  theii  gravel 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles 
35       Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave! 

T.  Campbell 


cclii]  Book  Fourth  289 

CCLII 

ODE  TO  DUTY 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God! 
O  Duty!  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 
5       Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe: 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
10       Be  on  them;  who,  in  love  and  truth 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth: 
Glad  hearts!  without  reproach  or  blot, 
W"ho  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not: 
15       Oh!  if  through  confidence  misplaced 

They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power!  around  them 
cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
20       And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Ev'n  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

25       I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 

Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
30  Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferr'd 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 


290  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclii 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 
I  supplicate  for  thy  controul, 
But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 
5       Me  this  uncharter'd  freedom  tires; 
I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires: 
My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name; 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver!  yet  thou  dost  wear 
10      The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face: 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads; 
15       Thou  dost  preserve  the  Stars  from  wrong; 

And  the  most  ancient   Heavens,  through  Thee,  are 
fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 
I  call  thee:  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 
20       Oh  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live. 

W.  Wordsworth 


CCLIII 
ON  THE  CASTLE  OF  CHILLON 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind! 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty!  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  Thee  alone  can  bind; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd, 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 


cclvj  Book  Fourth  291 

Chillon!  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar,  for  'twas  trod, 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
5       By  Bonnivard!  May  none  those  marks  efface! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 

Lord  Byron 


ENGLAND  AND  SWITZERLAND,  1802 

Two  Voices  are  there;  one  is  of  the  Sea, 
One  of  the  Mountains;  each  a  mighty  voice: 
In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 
They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty! 
5  There  came  a  tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 

Thou  fought'st  against  him, — but  hast  vainly  striven : 
Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven, 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 
• — Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft; 
10  Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left — 
For,  high-soul'd  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 
That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 
And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 
And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  Thee! 

W.  Wordsworth 


ON  THE  EXTINCTION  OF  THE  VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  West;  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  child  of  Liberty. 


292  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  Jcclv 

She  was  a  maiden  city,  bright  and  free; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate; 
And  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 
5  And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 
Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay, — 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 
When  her  long  life  hath  reach'd  its  final  day: 
Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  shade 
10  Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  pass'd  away. 

TF.  Wordswortl 


LONDON,  1802 

O  Friend!  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 
For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest 
To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 
For  show;  mean  handy- work  of  craftsman,  cook, 
6  Or  groom! — We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest; 
The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best: 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 
Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 
10  This  is  idolatry;  and  these  we  adore: 

Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more: 
The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 
Is  gone;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 

W.  Wordswartk 


cciivn 
THE  SAME 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee:  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters:  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 


«clix]  Book  Fourth  293 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men: 
Oh!  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
5  Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart: 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea, 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free; 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
1C  The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

W.  Wordsworth 


When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
Great  nations;  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 
When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 
The  student's  bower  for  gold, — some  fears  unnamed 
5  I  had,  my  Country! — am  I  to  be  blamed? 
Now,  when  I  think  of  thee,,  and  what  thou  art, 
Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 
For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee;  we  who  find 
10  In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men; 
And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled: 
What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then, 
Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 
Ffilt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child! 

W .  Wordsworth 


CCLIX 

HOHENLINDEN 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow; 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


294  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [CC'UJB 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 

When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night 

Commanding  fires  ot  death  to  light 

The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 
6  By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd 

Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 
Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven; 
10  Then  rush'd  the  steed,  to  battle  driven; 

And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  Heaven 

Far  flash'd  the  red  artillery. 
But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  grow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  staine'd  snow; 
15  And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 

Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 
'Tis  morn;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
20  Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  Brave 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave! 
Wave,  Munich!  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 
25  Few,  few  shall  part,  where  many  meet! 

The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

T.  Campbell 

CCLX 
AFTER  BLENHEIM 

It  was  a  summer  evening, 
Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 

And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun; 
6  And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 

His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 


cclx]  Book  Fourth  295 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 

In  playing  there  had  found, 
5  He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found 

That  was  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy 

Who  stood  expectant  by; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 
10  And  with  a  natural  sigh 

"Tis  some  poor's  fellow's  skull/  said  he, 
'Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

'I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there's  many  here  about; 
15  And  often  when  I  go  to  plough 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out. 
For  many  thousand  men/  said  he, 
'Were  slain  in  that  great  victory.' 

'Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about/ 
20  Young  Peterkin  he  cries; 

And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder- waiting  eyes; 
'Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 
And  what  they  fought  each  other  for.' 

25  'It  was  the  English/  Kaspar  cried, 

'Who  put  the  French  to  rout; 
But  what  they  fought  each  other  for 

I  could  not  well  make  out. 
But  every  body  said/  quoth  he, 
30  'That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

'My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly: 
35  So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 

Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

'With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 
Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 


296  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclx 

And  many  a  childing  mother  then 

And  newborn  baby  died: 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

5  'They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

.After  the  field  was  won; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun: 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
10          After  a  famous  victory. 

'Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won 

And  our  good  Prince  Eugene;' 
'Why  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing!' 

Said  little  Wilhelmine; 

15  'Nay  .  .  nay  .  .  my  little  girl,'  quoth  he, 

'It  was  a  famous  victory. 

'And  every  body  praised  the  Duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win.' 
'But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?' 
20  Quoth  little  Peterkin: — 

'Why  that  I  cannot  tell,'  said  he, 
'But  'twas  a  famous  victory.' 

R.  Southey 


CCLXI 
PRO  P ATRIA  MORI 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 

Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind, 
Oh!  say  wilt  thou  weep,  when  they  darken  the  fame 

Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resign'd! 
6  Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree; 
For,  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I  have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee. 


cclxii]  Book  Fourth  297 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love; 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine: 
In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine! 
5  Oh!  blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see; 

But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give 
Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee. 

T.  Moore 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE 
AT  CORUNNA 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corpse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 
10       Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 
But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 
15  But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollow'd  his  narrow  bed 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his 

head, 
20      And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him, — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 


298  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxii 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring: 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

5       Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

C.  Wolfe 


SIMON  LEE  THE  OLD  HUNTSMAN 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 
Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor  Hall, 
An  old  man  dwells,  a  little  man, — 
'Tis  said  he  once  was  tall. 
8  Full  five-and-thirty  years  he  lived 

A  running  huntsman  merry; 
And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 
Is  red  as  a  ripe  cherry. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound, 
10          And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee, 

When  Echo  bandied,  round  and  round, 

The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 

In  those  proud  days  he  little  cared 

For  husbandry  or  tillage; 
15          To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse 

The  sleepers  of  the  village. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 
Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind; 
And  often,  ere  the  chase  was  done, 
20  He  reel'd  and  was  stone-blind. 

And  still  there's  something  in  the  world 
At  which  his  heart  rejoices; 
For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out, 
He  dearly  loves  their  voices. 


cclxiii]  Book  Fourth  299 

But  oh  the  heavy  change! — bereft 
Of  health,  strength,  friends  and  kindred,  seel 
Old  Simon  to  the  world  is  left 
In  liveried  poverty: — 

5  His  master's  dead,  and  no  one  now 

Dwells  in  the  Hall  of  Ivor; 
Men,  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead; 
He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick, 
10  His  body,  dwindled  and  awry, 

Rests  upon  ankles  swoln  and  thick; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 

One  prop  he  has,  and  only  one, — 

His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 
15  Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall, 

Upon  the  village  common. 

Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay, 
Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 
A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 
20  Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 

This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 
Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger; 
But  what  to  them  avails  the  land 
Which  he  can  till  no  longer? 

25  Oft,  working  by  her  husband's  side, 

Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do; 

For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride, 

Is  stouter  of  the  two. 

And,  though  you  with  your  utmost  skill 
30  From  labour  could  not  wean  them, 

'Tis  little,  very  little,  all 

That  they  can  do  between  them. 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store 

As  he  to  you  will  tell, 
35  For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 

Do  his  weak  ankles  swell. 

My  gentle  Reader,  I  perceive 

How  patiently  you've  waited, 

And  now  I  fear  that  you  expect 
40          Some  tale  will  be  related. 


300  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxiii 

O  Reader!  had  you  in  your  mind 
Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

0  gentle  Reader!  you  would  find 
A  tale  in  every  thing. 

5          What  more  I  nave  to  say  is  short, 
And  you  must  kindly  take  it: 
It  is  no  tale;  but,  should  you  think, 
Perhaps  a  tale  you'll  make  it. 

One  summer-day  I  chanced  to  see 
10          This  old  Man  doing  all  he  could 

To  unearth  the  root  of  an  old  tree, 

A  stump  of  rotten  wood. 

The  mattock  totter'd  in  his  hand; 

So  vain  was  his  endeavour 
*5  That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree 

He  might  have  work'd  for  ever. 

'You're  overtask'd,  good  Simon  Lee, 
Give  me  your  tool/  to  him  I  said; 
And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 
20  Received  my  proffer'd  aid. 

1  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow 
The  tangled  root  I  sever'd, 

At  which  the  poor  old  man  so  long 
And  vainly  had  endeavour'd. 


The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought, 
And  thanks  and  praises  seem'd  to  run 
So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I  thought 
They  never  would  have  done. 
— I've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deed 
With  coldness  still  returning; 
Alas!  the  gratitude  of  men 
Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 

W.  Wordsworth 

CCLXIV 
THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


cclxv]  Book  Fourth  301 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  Love  once,  fairest  among  women: 
6  Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man: 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

10  Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood, 
Earth  seem'd  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother, 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 
15  So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces, 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left 

me, 

And  some  are  taken  from  me;  all  are  departed; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

C.  Lamb 


THE  JOURNEY  ONWARDS 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  look'd  ba°,k 

To  that  dear  isle  'twas  leaving. 
S  So  loth  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us; 
So  turn  our  hearts,  as  on  we  rove, 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us! 

When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanish'd  years 
10  We  talk  with  joyous  seeming — 

With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 
So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming; 


302  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxv 

While  memory  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
Oh,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us! 

5  And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flowery,  wild,  and  sweet, 

And  nought  but  love  is  wanting; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss 
10  If  Heaven  had  but  assign'd  us 

To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 
With  some  we've  left  behind  us! 

As  travellers  oft  look  back  at  eve 

When  eastward  darkly  going, 
15  To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing, — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 
To  gloom  hath  near  consign'd  us, 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 
20  Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 

T.  Moore 

CCLXVI 

YOUTH  AND  AGE 

There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes 

away 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's 

dull  decay; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone, 

which  fades  so  fast, 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere  youth 

itself  be  past. 

5  Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the  wreck  of 

happiness 

Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt,  or  ocean  of  excess: 
The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only  points  in 

vain 

The   shore   to   which   their  shiver'd   sail   shall  never 
'stretch  again. 


cclxvii]  Book  Fourth  303 

'Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death  itself 

conies  down; 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its 

own; 
That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain  of  our 

tears, 
And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  'tis  where  the 

ice  appears. 

5  Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,   and  ""mirth 

distract  the  breast, 
Through   midnight    hours    that   yield   no   more   their 

former  hope  of  rest; 

'Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret  wreathe, 
All  green  and   wildly   fresh  without,   but   worn  and 

gray  beneath.     '  • 

Oh  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt,  or  be  what  I  have  been, 
10  Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept  o'er  many  a  van- 

ish'd  scene, — 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all  brackish 

though  they  be, 

So  midst  the  wither'd  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would 
flow  to  me! 

Lord  Byron 


A  LESSON 

There  is  a  Flower,  the  lesser  Celandine, 
That  shrinks  like  many  more  from  cold  and  rain, 
And  the  first  moment  that  the  sun  may  shine, 
Bright  as  the  sun  himself,  'tis  out  again! 

5  When  hailstones  have  been  falling,  swarm  on  swarm, 
Or  blasts  the  green  field  and  the  trees  distrest, 
Oft  have  I  seen  it  muffled  up  from  harm 
In  close  self-shelter,  like  a  thing  at  rest. 

But  lately,  one  rough  day,  this  Flower  I  past, 
10  And  recognized  it,  though  an  alter'd  form, 
Now  standing  forth  an  offering  to  the  blast, 
And  buffeted  at  will  by  rain  and  storm. 


304  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxvii 

I  stopp'd  and  said,  with  inly-mutter'd  voice, 
'It  doth  not  love  the  shower,  nor  seek  the  cold 
This  neither  is  its  courage  nor  its  choice, 
But  its  necessity  in  being  old. 
5  'The  sunshine  may  not  cheer  it,  nor  the  dew; 
It  cannot  help  itself  in  its  decay; 
Stiff  in  its  members,  wither'd,  changed  of  hue,' — 
And,  in  my  spleen,  I  smiled  that  it  was  gray. 
To  be  a  prodigal's  favourite — then,  worse  truth, 
10  A  miser's  pensioner— behold  our  lot! 

O  Man!  that  from  thy  fair  and  shining  youth 
Age  might  but  take  the  things  Youth  needed  not! 

W.  Wordsworth 


PAST  AND  PRESENT 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 

The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn; 
5  He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day; 

But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember 
10          The  roses,  red  and  white, 

The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups — 

Those  flowers  made  of  light! 

The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
15          The  laburnum  on  his  birth-day, — 

The  tree  is  living  yet! . 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 
20          To  swallows  on  the  wing; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow. 


cclxix]  Book  Fourth  305 

y 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky: 
5  It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  Heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

T.  Hood 


THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

r>ft  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
i-'ond  Memory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me: 
5  The  smiles,  the  tears 

Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
10  The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  i 

Thus  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
^ad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 
15  When  I  remember  all 

The  friends  so  link'd  together 
l've  seen  around  me  fall 
Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 

I  feel  like  one 
20  Who  treads  alone 

Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
\nd  all  but  he  departed! 
25  Thus  in  the  stilly  night 

iHre  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
ciad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

T.  Moore 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxx 


STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN-  DEJECTION 
NEAR  NAPLES 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 
The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  might: 
5          The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight — 
The  winds',  the  birds',  the  ocean-floods' — 
The  city's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

10  I  see  the  deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea- weeds  strown; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore 
Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers  thrown: 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone; 

15  The  lightning  of  the  noon-tide  ocean 

Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion — 
How  sweet!  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 
Alas!  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

20  Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 

Nor  that  content,  surpassing  wealth, 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  walk'd  with  inward  glory  crown'd — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure; 

25  Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure; 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 
Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild 
Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are; 

30  I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear,— 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

35  My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 

Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


cclxxii]  Book  Fourth  307 

CCLXXI 

TtfE  SCHOLAR 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past; 
Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 
The  mighty  minds  of  old: 
5  My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 

With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal 
And  seek  relief  in  woe; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 
10  How  much  to  them  I  owe, 

My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedew'd 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead;  with  them 
I  live  in  long-past  years, 

15  Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead;  anon 
20  My  place  with  them  will  be, 

And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 
Through  all  Futurity; 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

R.  Southey 

CCLXXII 

THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 
5  Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 

Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine? 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxxii 

Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison?  O  generous  food! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  Maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new-old  sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine, 
And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 

J.  Keats 


THE  PRIDE  OF  YOUTH 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 
Walking  so  early; 

Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush* 
Singing  so  rarely. 

5  'Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird, 

When  shall  I  marry  me? 
— 'When  six  braw  gentlemen 
Kirkward  shall  carry  ye.' 

'Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 
10  Birdie,  say  truly?' 

— 'The  gray-headed  sexton 
That  delves  the  grave  duly. 


ccixxiv]  Book  Fourth  309 

'The  glowworm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 

Welcome,  proud  lady.' 

Sir  W.  SSott 

CCLXXIV 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 

One  more  Unfortunate 
Weary  of  breath 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death! 
5  Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  writh  care; 
Fashion 'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair! 

Look  at  her  garments 
10  Clinging  like  cerements; 

Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

15  Touch  her  not  scornfully; 

Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly; 

Not  of  the  stains  of  her — 

All  that  remains  of  her 
20  Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutiful: 
Past  all  dishonour, 
25  Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
30  Oozing  so  clammily. 


310  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxxr 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
5  Where  was  her  home? 

Who  was  her  father? 
Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 
Had  she  a  brother? 

10  Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 

Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other? 

Alas !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
15  Under  the  sun! 

Oh!  it  was  pitiful! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
20  Fatherly,  motherly 

Feelings  had  changed: 

Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 

Thrown  from  its  eminence; 

Even  God's  providence 
25  Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamos  qiu'ver 
So  far  in  the  river, 
With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
30  From  garret  to  basement, 

She  stood,  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver 
35  But  not  the  dark  arch, 

Or  the  black  flowing  river: 
Mad  from  life's  history, 


cclxxiv]  Book  Fourth  311 

Glad  to  death's  mystery 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd— 
Any  where,  any  where 
Out  of  the  world! 

5  In  she  plunged  boldly, 

No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran, — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it— think  of  it, 
10  Dissolute  Man! 

Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care; 
15  Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 

Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly, 
20  Smooth  and  compose  them, 

And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Thro'  muddy  impurity, 
25  As  when  with  the  daring 

Last  look  of  despairing 

Fix'd  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 

Spurr'd  by  contumely, 
30  Cold  inhumanity, 

Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest. 

— Cross  her  hands  humbly 

As  if  praying  dumbly, 
35  Over  her  breast! 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behaviour, 

And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour. 

T.  Hood 


312  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxxv 


ELEGY 

Oh  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom! 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 
5  And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom: 
And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 
And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 
And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread; 

10  Fond  wretch!  as  if  her  step  disturb'd  the  dead! 
Away!  we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 
That  Death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress: 
Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain? 
Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less? 

15       And  thou,  who  tell'st  me  to  forget, 
Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 

Lord  Byron 

CCLXXVI 
HESTER 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try 

With  vain  endeavour. 

5          A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 

And  her  together. 
A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
10          A  rising  step,  did  indicate 

Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate 

That  flush'd  her  spirit: 
I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call:  if  'twas  not  pride, 
15  It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied 

She  did  inherit. 


cclxxvii]  Book  Fourth  3lS 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool; 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school. 

Nature  had  blest  her. 
5  A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 

A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind; 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 

Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbour!  gone  before 
10  To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 

Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore 

Some  summer  morning — 
When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
15  A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 

A  sweet  fore-warning? 

C.  Lamb 


CCLXXVII 
TO  MARY 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be: 
5  It  never  through  my  mind 'had  past 

The  time  would  e'er  be  o'er, 
And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more! 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 
10  And  think  'twill  smile  again; 

And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook 

That  I  must  look  in  vain! 
But  when  I  speak — thou  dost  not  say 

What  thou  ne'er  left'st  unsaid; 
15  And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 

Sweet  Mary!  thou  art  dead! 


314  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [CC!XXA 

If  thou  wouldst  stay,  e'en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene— 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been. 
6  While  e'en  thy  chill,  bleak  corse  I  have, 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own; 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave — 

And  I  am  now  alone! 
I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 
10  Thou  hast  forgotten  me; 

And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart, 

In  thinking  too  of  thee: 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 
15          As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 
And  never  can  restore! 

C.  Wolfe 

CCLXXVIII 

CORONACH 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
6  The  font  reappearing 

From  the  raindrops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan"  no  morrow! 
The  hand  of  the  reaper 
10  Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 

But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
15  But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 
Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 
20  How  sound  is  thy  slumber! 


cclxxx]  Book  Fourth  315 

Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone;  and  for  ever! 

Sir  W.  Scott 


THE  DEATH  BED 

We  watch'd  her  breathing  thro'  the  night, 
Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 

As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

5  So  silently  we  seem'd  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 
To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
10  Our  fears  our  hopes  belied — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad 

And  chill  with  early  showers, 
15  Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours. 

T.  Hood 

CCLXXX 

AGNES 

I  saw  her  in  childhood — 

A  bright,  gentle  thing, 
Like  the  dawn  of  the  morn, 

Or  the  dews  of  the  spring: 
5  The  daisies  and  hare-bells 

Her  playmates  all  day; 
Herself  as  light-hearted 

And  artless  as  they. 


316  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxxx 

I  saw  her  again — 

A  fair  girl  of  eighteen, 
Fresh  glittering  with  graces 

Of  mind  and  of  mien. 
5        .  Her  speech  was  all  music; 

Like  moonlight  she  shone; 
The  envy  of  many, 

The  glory  of  one. 

Years,  years  fleeted  over — 
10  I  stood  at  her  foot: 

The  bud  had  grown  blossom, 

The  blossom  was  fruit. 
A  dignified  mother, 

Her  infant  she  bore; 

15  And  look'd,  I  thought,  fairer 

Than  ever  before. 

I  saw  her  once  more — 

'Twas  the  day  that  she  died; 
Heaven's  light  was  around  her, 
20  And  God  at  her  side; 

No  wants  to  distress  her, 

No  fears  to  appal — 
O  then,  I  felt,  then 
She  was  fairest  of  all! 

H.  F.  Lyte 


CCLXXXI 

ROSA  BELLE 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay 

That  mourns'  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

5  'Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  creWi 

And,  gentle  ladye,  deign  to  stay! 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 
Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 


cclxxxi]  Book  Fourth  317 

'The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white; 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly; 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water-Sprite, 
Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

5  'Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 

A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  ladye  gay; 
Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch; 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day? 

"Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 
10  To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 

But  that  my  ladye-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 

And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 
15  But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide 

If  'tis  not  fill'd  by  Rosabelle.' 

-O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam; 
'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's  light, 
20  And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 

It  ruddied  all  the  copse-wood  glen;  , 

'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  .groves  of  oak, 

And  seen  from  cavern'd  Hawthornden. 

25  Seem'd  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud 

Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffin'd  lie, 
Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  within,  around, 
30  Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale; 

Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound, 

And  glimmer'd  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair — 
35  So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 

The  lordly  line  of  high  Saint  Clair. 


318  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxxxi 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold — 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle. 

5       And  each  Saint  Clair  was  buried  there, 

With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell; 
But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds  sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 

Sir  W.  Scott 


CCLXXXII 
ON  AN  INFANT  DYING  AS  SOON  AS  BORN 

I  saw  where  in  the  shroud  did  lurk 
A  curious  frame  of  Nature's  work; 
A  flow'ret  crushed  in  the  bud, 
A  nameless  piece  of  Babyhood, 
5       Was  in  her  cradle-coffin  lying; 

Extinct,  with  scarce  the  sense  of  dying: 
So  soon  to  exchange  the  imprisoning  womb 
For  the  darker  closets  of  the  tomb! 
She  did  but  ope  an  eye,  and  put 

10      A  clear  beam  forth,  then  straight  up  shut 
For  the  long  dark:  ne'er  more  to  see 
Through  glasses  of  mortality. 
Riddle  of  destiny,  who  can  show 
What  thy  short  visit  meant,  or  know 

15       What  thy  errand  here  below? 
Shall  we  say,  that  Nature  blind 
Check'd  her  hand,  and  changed  her  mind 
Just  when  she  had  exactly  wrought 
A  finish'd  pattern  without  fault? 

20       Could  she  flag,  or  could  she  tire, 
Or  lack'd  she  the  Promethean  fire 
(With  her  nine  moons'  long  workings  sicken 'd) 
That  should  thy  little  limbs  have  quicken 'd? 
Limbs  so  firm,  they  seem'd  to  assure 

25       Life  of  health,  and  days  mature: 
Woman's  self  in  miniature! 


cclxxxii]  Book  Fourth  319 

Limbs  so  fair,  they  might  supply 

(Themselves  now  but  cold  imagery) 

The  sculptor  to  make  Beauty  by. 

Or  did  the  stern-eyed  Fate  descry 
5       That  babe  or  mother,  one  must  die; 

So  in  mercy  left  the  stock 

And  cut  the  branch;  to  save  the  shock 

Of  young  years  widow'd,  and  the  pain 

When  Single  State  comes  back  again 
10      To  the  lone  man  who,  reft  of  wife, 

Thenceforward  drags  a  maime'd  life? 

The  economy  of  Heaven  is  dark, 

And  wisest  clerks  have  miss'd  the  mark 

Why  human  buds,  like  this,  should  fall, 
15       More  brief  than  fly  ephemeral 

That  has  his  day;  while  shrivell'd  crones 

Stiffen  with  age  to  stocks  and  stones; 

And  crabbed  use  the  conscience  sears 

In  sinners  of  an  hundred  years. 
20       — Mother's  prattle,  mother's  kiss, 

Baby  fond,  thou  ne'er  wilt  miss: 

Rites,  which  custom  does  impose, 

Silver  bells,  and  baby  clothes; 

Coral  redder  than  those  lips 
25       Which  pale  death  did  late  eclipse; 

Music  framed  for  infants'  glee, 

Whistle  never  tuned  for  thee; 

Though  thou  want'st  not,  thou  shalt  have  them, 

Loving  hearts  were  they  which  gave  them. 
30       Let  not  one  be  missing;  nurse, 

See  them  laid  upon  the  hearse 

Of  infant  slain  by  doom  perverse. 

Why  should  kings  and  nobles  have 

Pictured  trophies  to  their  grave, 
35       And  we,  churls,  to  thee  deny 

Thy  pretty  toys  with  thee  to  lie — 

A  more  harmless  vanity? 

C.  Lamb 


320  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxxxiii 

CCLXXXIII 
IN  MEMORIAM 

A  child's  a  plaything  for  an  hour; 

Its  pretty  tricks  we  try 
For  that  or  for  a  longer  space, — 

Then  tire,  and  lay  it  by. 
5  But  I  knew  one  that  to  itself 

All  seasons  could  control; 
That  would  have  mock'd  the  sense  of  pain 

Out  of  a  grieved  soul. 
Th       straggler  into  loving  arms, 
10  Young  climber  up  of  knees, 

When  I  forget  thy  thousand  ways 
Then  life  and  all  shall  cease! 

M.  Lamb 

CCLXXXIV 
THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son, 

Where  art  thou,  worse  to  me  than  dead? 

Oh  find  me,  prosperous  or  undone! 

Or  if  the  grave  be  now  thy  bed, 
5          Why  am  I  ignorant  of  the  same 

That  I  may  rest;  and  neither  blame 

Nor  sorrow  may  attend  thy  name? 

Seven  years,  alas!  to  have  received 

No  tidings  of  an  only  child — 
10          To  have  despair'd,  have  hoped,  believed, 

And  been  for  evermore  beguiled, — 

Sometimes  with  thoughts  of  very  bliss! 

I  catch  at  them,  and  then  I  miss; 

Was  ever  darkness  like  to  this? 
15  He  was  among  the  prime  in  worth, 

An  object  beauteous  to  behold; 

Well  bom,  well  bred;  I  sent  him  forth 

Ingenuous,  innocent,  and  bold: 

If  things  ensued  that  wanted  grace 
20          As  hath  been  said,  they  were  not  base; 

And  never  blush  was  on  my  face. 


cclxxxiv]  Book  Fourth  321 

Ah!  little  doth  the  young-one  dream 
When  full  of  play  and  childish  cares, 
What  power  is  in  his  wildest  scream 
Heard  by  his  mother  unawares! 
5  He  knows  it  not,  he  cannot  guess; 

Years  to  a  mother  bring  distress; 
But  do  not  make  her  love  the  less. 

Neglect  me!  no,  I  suffer'd  long 
From  that  ill  thought;  and  being  blind 
10  Said  'Pride  shall  help  me  in  my  wrong: 

Kind  mother  have  I  been,  as  kind 
As  ever  breathed:'  and  that  is  true; 
I've  wet  my  path  with  tears  like  dew, 
Weeping  for  him  when  no  one  knew. 

15          My  Son,  if  thou  be  humbled,  poor, 

Hopeless  of  honour  and  of  gain, 

Oh!  do  not  dread  thy  mother's  door; 

Think  not  of  me  with  grief  and  pain: 

I  now  can  see  with  better  eyes; 
20  And  worldly  grandeur  I  despise 

And  fortune  with  her  gifts  and  lies. 

Alas!  the  fowls  of  heaven  have  wings, 
And  blasts  of  heaven  will  aid  their  flight; 
They  mount — how  short  a  voyage  brings 
25  The  wanderers  back  to  their  delight! 

Chains  tie  us  down  by  land  and  sea; 
And  wishes,  vain  as  mine,  may  be 
All  that  is  left  to  comfort  thee. 

Perhaps  some  dungeon  hears  thee  groan 
30  Maim'd,  mangled  by  inhuman  men; 

Or  thou  upon  a  desert  thrown 

Inheritest  the  lion's  den; 

Or  hast  been  summon'd  to  the  deep 

Thou,  thou,  and  all  thy  mates,  to  keep 
35  An  incommunicable  sleep. 

I  look  for  ghosts:  but  none  will  force 
Their  way  to  me;  'tis  falsely  said 
That  there  was  ever  intercourse 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead; 


322  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cclxxxiv 

For  surely  then  I  should  have  sight 
Of  him  I  wait  for  day  and  night 
With  love  and  longings  infinite. 

My  apprehensions  come  in  crowds; 
!  I  dread  the  rustling  of  the  grass; 

The  very  shadows  of  the  clouds 
Have  power  to  shake  me  as  they  pass: 
I  question  things,  and  do  not  find 
One  that  will  answer  to  my  mind; 
10          And  all  the  world  appears  unkind. 

Beyond  participation  lie 
My  troubles,  and  beyond  relief: 
If  any  chance  to  heave  a  sigh 
They  pity  me,  and  not  my  grief. 
15          Then  come  to  me,  my  Son,  or  send 
Some  tidings  that  my  woes  may  end! 
I  have  no  other  earthly  friend. 

W.  Wordsworth 


HUNTING  SONG 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day; 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here 

With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting-spear; 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 

Merrily  merrily  mingle  they, 

'Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming; 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay 

'Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 


cclxxxvi]  Book  Fourth  & 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size; 
5  We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 

When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay; 
'Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay 
10  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay! 

Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 

Run  a  course  as  well  as  we; 

Time,  stern  huntsman!  who  can  baulk, 

Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk; 
15  Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay! 

Sir  W.  Scott 

CCLXXXVI 

TO  THE  SKYLARK 

Ethereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the  sky! 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound? 
Or  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground? 
5  Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still! 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond 
Mount,  daring  warbler! — that  love-prompted  strain 
— 'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond — 
10  Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain: 

Yet  might'st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege!  to  sing 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  Spring. 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood; 
A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine, 
15  Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 
Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine; 
Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never  roam — 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home. 

W.  Wordsworth 


324  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury          [cclxxxvii 

CCLXXXVII 

TO  A  SKYLARK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
5  In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire, 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
10  And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run, 
15  Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  daylight 
20  Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight: 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear 
25  Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
30  The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  over- 

flow'd. 
What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
35  As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody; — 


cclxxxvii]  Bool:  Fourth  325 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
5  To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not: 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
10  With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower: 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 

15  Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from 
the  view: 

Like  a  rose  embower'd 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower'd, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

20  Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling 
Rain-awaken'd  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
25  Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
30  That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal 

Or  triumphal  chaunt 
Match'd  with  thine,  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
35  A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  wa**fc- 


326  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury          [cclxxxvii 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
5  What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be: 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee: 
10  Thou  lovest;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
15  Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 

20  Our  sweetest   songs   are   those   that   tell   of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
25  I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
30  Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 

35  The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now! 

P.  B.  Shelley 


«clxxxviii]  Book  Fourth  327 

CCLXXXVIII 
THE  GREEN  LINNET* 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 
With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 
Of  Spring's  unclouded  weather, 
6  In  this  sequester'd  nook  how  sweet 

To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat! 
And  flowers  and  birds  once  more  to  greet, 
My  last  year's  friends  together. 

One  have  I  mark'd,  the  happiest  guest 
10  In  all  this  covert  of  the  blest: 

Hail  to  Thee,  far  above  the  rest 

In  joy  of  voice  and  pinion! 

Thou,  Linnet!  in  thy  green  array 

Presiding  Spirit  here  to-day 
15  Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May; 

And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

While  birds,  and  butterflies,  and  flowers, 
Make  all  one  band  of  paramours, 
Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bowers, 
20  Art  sole  in  thy  employment; 

A  Life,  a  Presence  like  the  air, 
Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care, 
Too  blest  with  any  one  to  pair; 
Thyself  thy  own  enjoyment. 

25  Amid  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees 

That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 

Behold  him  perch'd  in  ecstasies 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover; 

There!  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
30  Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 

Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings, 

That  cover  him  all  over. 

My  dazzled  sight  he  oft  deceives — • 
A  brother  of  the  dancing  leaves; 
35  Then  flits,  and  from  the  cottage-eaves 

Pours  forth  his  song  in  gushes; 


328  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury         [cclxxxviii 

As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mock'd  and  treated  with  disdain 
The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign, 
While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 

W.  Wordsworth 

CCLXXXIX 

TO  THE  CUCKOO 

0  blithe  new-comer!  I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and -rejoice: 

0  Cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice? 

5          While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale 
10  Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 

Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring! 
Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
15         '  No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 
A  voice,  a  mystery; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

1  listen'd  to;  that  Cry 

Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
20  In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love; 
Still  long'd  for,  never  seen! 

25          And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 


ccxc]  Book  Fourth  329 

O  blessed  Bird!  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place, 
That  is  fit  home  for  Thee! 

W.  Wordsworth 

ccxc 
ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk: 
5  'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 

But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 

Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
10  Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage!  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth! 
15  O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth; 

That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
20       And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim: 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan; 
25  Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
30       Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 


330  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxc 

Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings,  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards: 
5  Already  with  thee!  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
10       Through    verdurous    glooms    and    winding    mossy 
ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
15  The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine; 
Fast  fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
20          The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  muse'd  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath; 
25  Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 
30          To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 
35  Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the   sad   heart   of   Ruth,    when,    sick   for 
home, 


ecxci]  Book  Fourth  331 

She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn; 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

5  Forlorn!  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu!  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
10       Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades: 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music: — Do  I  wake  or  sleep? 

J.  Keats 


UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE, 
SEPT.  3,  1802 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  City  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
5       The  beauty  of  the  morning:  silent,  bare, 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky, — - 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
10       In  his  first  splendour  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 
The  river  giideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 


And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 
W.  W 


Wordsworth 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxcii 


To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a  prayer 
Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 
5  Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content. 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 
And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment  ? 
Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
10  Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 
Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career, 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by: 
E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 

J.  Keats 


CCXCIII 

OZYMANDIAS  OF  EGYPT 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said.  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shatter'd  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
5  And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamp'd  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mock'd  them  and  the  heart  that  fed; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear: 
10  'My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair!' 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


ccxcv]  Book  Fourth  333 


COMPOSED  AT  NEIDPATH  CASTLE,  THE 

PROPERTY  OF  LORD  QUEENSBERRY, 

1803 

Degenerate  Douglas!  oh,  the  unworthy  lord! 
Whom  mere  despite  of  heart  could  so  far  please 
And  love  of  havoc,  (for  with  such  disease 
Fame  taxes  him,)  that  he  could  send  forth  word 
5  To  level  with  the  dust  a  noble  horde, 
A  brotherhood  of  venerable  trees, 
Leaving  an  ancient  dome,  and  towers  like  these, 
Beggar'd  and  outraged! — Many  hearts  deplored 
The  fate  of  those  old  trees;  and  oft  with  pain 
10  The  traveller  at  this  day  will  stop  and  gaze 

On  wrongs,  which  Nature  scarcely  seems  to  heed: 
For  shelter'd  places,  bosoms,  nooks,  and  bays, 
And  the  pure  mountains,  and  the  gentle  Tweed, 
And  the  green  silent  pastures,  yet  remain. 

W.  Wordsworth 


THE  BEECH  TREE'S  PETITION' 

O  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me! 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree! 
Though  bush  or  floweret  never  grow 
My  dark  unwarming  shade  below; 
Nor  summer  bud  perfume  the  dew 
Of  rosy  blush,  or  yellow  hue; 
Nor  fruits  of  autumn,  blossom-born, 
My  green  and  glossy  leaves  adorn; 
Nor  murmuring  tribes  from  me  derive 
Th'  ambrosial  amber  of  the  hive; 
Yet  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me: 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree! 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  tccxcv 

Thrice  twenty  summers  I  have  seen 
The  sky  grow  bright,  the  forest  green; 
And  many  a  wintry  wind  have  stood 
In  bloomless,  fruitless  solitude, 
Since  childhood  in  my  pleasant  bower 
First  spent  its  sweet  and  sportive  hour; 
Since  youthful  lovers  in  my  shade 
Their  vows  of  truth  and  rapture  made, 
And  on  my  trunk's  surviving  frame 
Carved  many  a  long-forgotten  name. 
Oh!  by  the  sighs  of  gentle  sound, 
First  breathed  upon  this  sacred  ground; 
By  all  that  Love  has  whisper'd  here, 
Or  Beauty  heard  with  ravish'd  ear; 
As  Love's  own  altar  honour  me: 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree! 

T.  CanufaU 


ADMONITION  TO  A  TRAVELLER 

Ties,  there  is  holy  pleasure  in  thine"  eyel 
--The  lovely  Cottage  in  the  guardian  nook 
Hath  stirr'd  thee  deeply;  with  its  own  dear  brook, 
Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky! 
6  But  covet  not  the  abode;  forbear  to  sigh 
As  many  do,  repining  while  they  look; 
Intruders — who  would  tear  from  Nature's  book 
This  precious  leaf  with  harsh  impiety. 
— Think  what  the  home  must  be  if  it  were  thine, 
10  Even  thine,  though  few  thy  wants! — Roof,  window, 

•  door, 

The  very  flowers  are  sacred  to  the  Poor, 
The  roses  to  the  porch  which  they  entwine: 
Yea,  all  that  now  enchants  thee,  from  the  day 
On  which  it  should  be  touch'd,  would  melt  away! 

W.  Wordsworth 


ccxcvii]  Book  Fourth  335 


TO  THE  HIGHLAND  GIRL  OF 
INVERSNEYDE 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 
Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower! 
Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 
Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head: 
5          And  these  gray  rocks,  that  household  lawn, 
Those  trees — a  veil  just  half  withdrawn, 
This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 
A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake, 
This  little  bay,  a  quiet  road 

10  That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode: 

In  truth  together  ye  do  seem 
Like  something  fashion'd  in  a  dream; 
Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 
When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  1 

15  But  O  fair  Creature!  in  the  light 

Of  common  day,  so  heavenly  bright 
I  bless  Thee,  Vision  as  thou  art, 
I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart: 
God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years! 

20  Thee  neither  know  I  nor  thy  peers: 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  fill'd  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away;  . 
For  never  saw  I  mien  or  face 

25  In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 

Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here  scatter'd,  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  Thou  dost  not  need 

30  The  embarrass'd  look  of  shy  distress, 

And  maidenly  shameface'dness: 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  Mountaineer: 
A  face  with  gladness  overspread; 

85  Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred; 


•336  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  fccxcvii 

And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays; 
With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
5  Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 

Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech: 
A  bondage  sweetly  brook'd,  a  strife 
"That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 
10  Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind — 

Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful? 

0  happy  pleasure!  here  to  dwell 
15           Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell; 

Adopt  your  homely  ways,  and  dress, 

A  shepherd,  thou  a  shepherdess! 

But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 

More  like  a  grave  reality: 
20          Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 

.Of  the  wild  sea:  and  I  would  have 

Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 

Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 

What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see! 
25          Thy  elder  brother  I  would  be, 

Thy  father — anything  to  thee. 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven!  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place: 
Joy  have  I  had;  and  going  hence 
30          I  bear  away  my  recompence. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  Memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes: 
Then  why  should  I  be  loth  to  stir? 

1  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her; 
35           To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 

Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 
Nor  am  I  loth,  though  pleased  at  heart, 
Sweet  Highland  Girl!  from  thee  to  part; 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old 


ccxcviii]  Book  Fourth  337 

,  As  fair  before  me  shall  behold 

As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 
The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall; 
And  Thee,  the  Spirit  of  them  all! 

W.  Wordsworth 


THE  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 
5  Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 

And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 

0  listen!  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
10  More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 

Among  Arabian  sands: 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 

In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird 
15  Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
20  And  battles  long  ago: 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again! 

25  Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 

As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 

1  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; — 
I  listen 'd,  motionless  and  still; 


338  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccxcviii 

And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

W .  Wordsworth 


THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears, 
Hangs  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  three 

years: 

Poor  Susan  has  pass'd  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  bird. 

6  'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment;  what  ails  her?  She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale 
10  Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripp'd  with  her  pail-; 
And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven:  but  they  fade, 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade; 
15  The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise, 
And  the  colours  have  all  pass'd  away  from  her  eyes  I 

W.  Wordsworth 


ccc 
TO  A  LADY,  WITH  A  GUITAR 

Ariel  to  Miranda:— Take 

This  slave  of  music,  for  the  sake 

Of  him,  who  is  the  slave  of  thee; 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 

Till  joy  denies  itself  again 

And,  too  intense,  is  turn'd  to  pain. 


ccc]  Book  Fourth  339 

For  by  permission  and  command 

Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spokenj 
5  Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who 

From  life  to  life  must  still  -pursue 

Your  happiness,  for  thus  alone 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own. 

From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 
10  As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  cf  Naples  he 

Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea, 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 

Like  a  living  meteor. 
15  When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon 

In  her  interlunar  swoon 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel: — 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 
20  Like  an  unseen  Star  of  birth 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 

Of  life  from  your  nativity: — 

Many  changes  have  been  run 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 
25  Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has  track'd  your  steps  and  served  your  •will. 

Now  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 

This  is  all  remember'd  not; 

And  now,  alas!  the  poor  Sprite  is 
30  Imprison'd  for  some  fault  of  his 

In  a  body  like  a  grave — 

From  .you  he  only  dares  to  crave, 

For  his  service  and  his  sorrow 

A  smile  to  day,  a  song  to  morrow. 

35  The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought 

To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 

Fell'd  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 

Rock'd  in  that  repose  divine 
40  On  the  wind-swept  Apennine; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past, 


340  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ccc 

And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast, 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love:  And  so  this  tree, — 
5  Oh  that  such  our  death  may  be! — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  nc  pain, 

To  live  in  happier  form  again: 

From  which,  beneath  heaven's  fairest  star, 

The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar; 
10          And  taught  it  justly  to  reply 

To  all  who  question  skilfully 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  own; 

Whispering  in  enamour'd  tone 

Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 
15  And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells: 

— For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 

Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 

Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 

And  the  many- voiced  fountains; 
«,          The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 

The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 

The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 

The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 

And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew, 
26  And  airs  of  evening;  and  it  knew 

That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound 

Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 

As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 

Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way: 
30          • — All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 

To  those  who  cannot  question  well 

The  Spirit  that  inhabits  it; 

It  talks  according  to  the  wit 

Of  its  companions;  and  no  more 
35  Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before 

By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 

These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 

But,  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 

Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 
40  It  keeps  its  highest  holiest  tone 

For  our  beloved  Friend  alone. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


cccii]  Book  Fourth  341 

ccci 
THE  DAFFODILS 

I  wander'd  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 
»          When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 
5       Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretch'd  in  never-ending  line 
10       Along  the  margin  of  a  bay: 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: — 
15      A  Poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company! 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought; 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 
20       In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

W.  Wordsworth 

CCCII 

TO  THE  DAISY 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Sweet  Daisy!  oft  I  talk  to  thee 

For  thou  art  worthy, 
5          Thou  unassuming  Common-place 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace 

Which  Love  makes  for  thee! 


342  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccii 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 

I  sit  and  play  with  similes, 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees., 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising; 
5  And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 

I  give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame 
As  is  the  humour  of  the  game, 

While  I  am  gazing. 
A  nun  demure,  of  lowly  port; 
10          Or  sprightly  maiden,  of  Love's  court, 
In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations; 
A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest; 
18  Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 
A  little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye 
Staring  to  threaten  and  defy, 
That  thought  comes  next — and  instantly 
pi  The  freak  is  over, 

The  shape  will  vanish,  and  behold: 
A  silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold 
That  spreads  itself,  some  faery  bold 

In  fight  to  cover. 

<J5  I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar — 

And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star, 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

In  heaven  above  thee! 
Yet  like  a  star  with  glittering  crest, 
30  Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest;— 

May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest 

Who  shall  reprove  thee! 
Sweet  Flower!  for  by  that  name  at  last 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past 
35  I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 

Sweet  silent  Creature! 
That  breath'st  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 
40  Of  thy  meek  nature! 

W.  Wordsworth 


ccciiil  Book  Fourth  343 

CCCIII 

ODE  TO  AUTUMX 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 
With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run; 
5  To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  haze)  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
10  Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease; 
For  Summer  has  o'erbrimm'd  their  clammy 

WTho  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  V 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

15  Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twine'd  flowers: 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

20  Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook; 
Or  by  a  cyder-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay,  where  are  they? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — • 
25  While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 

Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river-sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 
30  And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  'from  hilly  bourn; 

Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft; 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

J.  Keats 


344  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  \tvc\\ 

CCCIV 

ODE  TO  WINTER 
Germany,  December,  1800 

When  first  the  fiery-mantled  Sun 
His  heavenly  race  began  to  run, 
Round  the  earth  and  ocean  blue 
His  children  four  the  Seasons  flew. 
5       First,  in  green  apparel  dancing, 
The  young  Spring  smiled  with  angel-grace; 

Rosy  Summer  next  advancing, 
Rush'd  into  her  sire's  embrace — 
Her  bright-hair'd  sire,  who  bade  her  keep 
10      For  ever  nearest  to  his  smiles, 
On  Calpe's  olive-shaded  steep 

Or  India's  citron-cover'd  isles: 
More  remote,  and  buxom-brown, 

The  Queen  of  vintage  bow'd  before  his  throne; 
15  A  rich  pomegranate  gemm'd  her  crown, 
A  ripe  sheaf  bound  her  zone. 

But  howling  Winter  fled  afar 
To  hills  that  prop  the  polar  star; 
And  loves  on  deer-borne  car  to  ride 
20  With  barren  darkness  by  his  side, 
Round  the  shore  where  loud  Lofoden 

Whirls  to  death  the  roaring  whale, 
Round  the  hall  where  Runic  Odin 

Howls  his  war-song  to  the  gale; 
25  Save  when  adown  the  ravaged  globe 

He  travels  on  his  native  storm, 
Deflowering  Nature's  grassy  robe 

And  trampling  on  her  faded  form: — • 
Till  light's  returning  Lord  assume 
30      The  shaft  that,  drives  him  to  his  polar  field, 
Of  power  to  pierce  his  raven  plume 

And  crystal-cover'd  shield. 

Oh,  sire  of  storms!  whose  savage  ear 
The  Lapland  drum  delights  to  hear, 
35  When  Frenzy  with  her  blood-shot  eye 
Implores  thy  dreadful  deity — - 


cccv]  Book  Fourth  34S 

Archangel*  Power  of  desolation! 
Fast  descending  as  thou  art, 
Say,  hath  mortal  invocation 

Spells  tc  touch  thy  stony  heart? 
5  Then,  sullen  Winter!-  hear  my  prayer. 
And  gently  rule  the  ruin'd  year; 
Nor  chill  the  wanderer's  bosom  bare 
Nor  freeze  the  wretch's  falling  tear: 
To  shuddering  Want's  unmantled  bed 
10       Thy  horror-breathing  agues  cease  to  lend^ 
And  gently  on  the  orphan  head 

Of  Innocence  descend. 
But  chiefly  spare,  O  king  of  clouds  I 
The  sailor  on  his  airy  shrouds, 
15  When  wrecks  and  beacons  strew  the  steep, 
And  spectres  walk  along  the  deep. 
Milder  yet  thy  snowy  breezes 

Pour  on  yonder  tented  shores, 
Where  the  Rhine's  broad  billow  freezes, 
20       Or  the  dark-brown  Danube  roars 
Oh,  winds  of  Winter!  list  ye  there 

To  many  a  deep  and  dying  groan? 
Or  start,  ye  demons  of  the  midnight  air, 

At  shrieks  and  thunders  louder  than  your  OWE? 
25  Alas!  ev'n  your  unhallow'd  breath 
May  spare  the  victim  fallen  low; 
But  Man  will  ask  no  truce  to  death, — 
No  bounds  to  human  woe. 

T.  CampbeU 


YARROW  UNVISITED 

1803 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravell'd, 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  travell'd; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 
Then  said  my  'winsome  Marrow,' 
'Whate'er  betide,  we'll  turn  aside. 
And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.' 


346  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  cccv] 

'Let  Yarrow  folk,  frae  Selkirk  town, 
Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 
Go  back  to  Yarrow,  'tis  their  own, 
Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling! 
6       On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed, 
Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow; 
But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 
Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

'There's  Gala  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 
10  Both  lying  right  before  us; 

And  Dryburgh,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 

The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus; 

There's  pleasant  Tiviot-dale,  a  land 

Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow: 
15  Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 

To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow? 

'What's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare 
That  glides  the  dark  hills  under? 
There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 
20       As  worthy  of  your  wonder.' 

— Strange  words  they  seem'd  of  slight  and  scorn; 
My  True-love  sigh  d  for  sorrow, 
And  look'd  me  in  the  face,  to  think 
I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow! 

25       *O  green,'  said  I,  'are  Yarrow's  holms, 

And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing! 

Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 

But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 

O'er  hilly  path  and  open  strath 
30      We'll  wander  Scotland  thorough; 

But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 

Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

'Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 

The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow; 
85  The  swan  on  still  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Float  double,  swan  and  shadow! 

We  will  not  see  them;  will  not  go 

To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow: 

Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
40  There's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 


eccvil  Book  Fourth  347 

'Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown! 
It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it: 
We  have  a  vision  of  our  own, 
Ah!  why  should  we  undo  it? 
The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 
We'll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow! 
For  when  we're  there,  although  'tis  fair, 
'Twill  be  another  Yarrow! 

'If -Care  with  freezing  years  should  come 
10  And  wandering  seem  but  folly, — 

Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home, 

And  yet  be  melancholy; 

Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

'Twill  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow 
15  That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show, 

The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow!' 

W.  Wordsworth 


CCCVI 

YARROW  VISITED 

September,  1814 

And  is  this — Yarrow?- — This  the  stream 
Of  which  my  fancy  cherish'd 
So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream, 
An  image  that  hath  perish'd? 
5  O  that  some  minstrel's  harp  were  near 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness 
And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 
That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness! 

Yet  why? — a  silvery  current  flows 
10  With  uncontroll'd  meanderings; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 

Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted; 
15  For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 


348  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccvi 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  Vale, 
Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 
Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 
A  tender  hazy  brightness; 
5  Mild  dawn  of  promise!  that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection; 
Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 
A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower' 
10          Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding: 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 
15  The  Water-wraith  ascended  thrice, 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  lay  that  sings 
The  haunts  of  happy  lovers, 
The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 
20          The  leafy  grove  that  covers: 
And  pity  sanctifies  the  verse 
That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 
The  unconquerable  strength  of  love; 
Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow! 

25  But  thou  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination, 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation: 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 
30          A  softness  still  and  holy: 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decay'd, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature, 
35  With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  nature; 

And  rising  from  those  lofty  groves 

Behold  a  ruin  hoary, 

The  shatter'd  front  of  Newark's  towers, 
40  Renown'd  in  Border  story. 


cccvii]  Book  Fourth  349 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom, 
For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in, 
For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength, 
And  age  to  wear  away  in! 
5  Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 
Of  tender  thoughts  that  nestle  there — 
The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet  on  this  autumnal  -day 
10  The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 

And  on  my  True-love's  forehead  plant 

A  crest  of  blooming  heather! 

And  what  if  I  enwreathed  my  own? 

'Twere  no  offence  to  reason; 
15  The  sober  hills  thus  deck  their  brows 

To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see — but  not  by  sight  alone, 
Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee; 
A  ray  of  Fancy  still  survives — - 
20  Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee! 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 
A  course  of  lively  pleasure; 
And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe 
Accordant  to  the  measure. 

25  The  vapours  linger  round  the  heights, 

They  melt,  and  soon  must  vanish; 

One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine — 

Sad  thought!  which  I  would  banish, 

But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
30  Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow! 

Will  dwell  with  me,  to  heighten  joy, 

And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 

W.  Wordsworth 


CCCVII 

THE  INVITATION 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away,- 
Fairer  far  than  this  fair  Day, 


350  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccvii 

Which,  like  thee,  to  those  in  sorrow 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 
5  The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring 

Through  the  winter  wandering, 
Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  morn 
To  hoar  February  born; 
Bending  from  heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 

10  It  kiss'd  the  forehead  of  the  earth. 

And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free. 
And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 
And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains, 

15          And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 

Strew'd  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 
Making  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 
20          To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs— 

To  the  silent  wilderness 

Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 

Its  music,  lest  it  should  not  find 

An  echo  in  another's  mind, 
25          While  the  touch  of  Nature's  art 

Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day 

Awake!  arise!  and  come  away! 

To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 
30  To  the  pools  where  winter  rains 

Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 

Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 

Of  sapless  green,  and  ivy  dun, 

Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun; 
35          Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be 

And  the  sandhills  of  the  sea; 

Where  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets 

The  daisy-star  that  never  sets, 

And  wind-flowers  and  violets 
40          Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue 

Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new; 


cccviii]  Book  Fourth 

When  the  night  is  left  behind 
In  the  deep  east,  dim  and  blind, 
And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 
And  the  multitudinous 
6  Billows  murmur  at  our  feet, 

Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet, 
And  all  things  seem  only  one 
In  the  universal  Sun. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


THE  RECOLLECTION 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou, 
The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead: 
Rise,  Memory,  and  write  its  praise! 
Up — to  thy  wonted  work!  come,  trace 
The  epitaph  of  glory  fled, 
For  now  the  earth  has  changed  its  face, 
A  frown  is  on  the  heaven's  brow. 

We  wander'd  to  the  Pine  Forest 

That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam; 
The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep 

The  smile  of  heaven  lay; 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  hour  wrere  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies 
Which  scatter'd  from  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise! 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

As  serpents  interlaced, — 
And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath 

That  under  heaven  is  blown, 


352  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccviii 

To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath, 

As  tender  as  its  own: 
Now  all  the  tree-tops  lay  asleep 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea, 
5  As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 

The  ocean- woods  may  be. 

How  calm  it  was! — The  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound. 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 
10  Made  stiller  with  her  sound 

The  inviolable  quietness; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
15  There  seem'd,  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  white  mountain  waste 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet, 

A  magic  circle  traced,- — • 
A  spirit  interfused  around, 
20  A  thrilling  silent  life; 

To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife; — 
And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there 
•25          Was  one  fair  form  that  fill'd  with  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere. 

We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough; 
Each  seem'd  as  'twere  a  little  sky 
30  Gulf'd  in  a  world  below; 

A  firmament  of  purple  light 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay, 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night 

And  purer  than  the  day — 
35  In  wThich  the  lovely  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  spreading  there. 
There  lay  the  glade  and  neighbouring  lawn, 
40  And  through  the  dark-green  wood 


cccix]  Book  Fourth  353 

The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  a  speckled  cloud. 
Sweet  views  in  which  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen 
5  Were  imaged  in  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green: 
And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

With  an  Elysian  glow, 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 
10  A  softer  day  below. 

Like  one  beloved,  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  more  than  truth  exprest; 
15  Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought 
Which  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 
— Though  thou  art  ever  fair  and  kind, 
20  The  forests  ever  green, 

Less  oft  is  peace  in  Shelley's  mind 
Than  calm  in  waters,  seen! 

P.  B.  Shelley 


BY  THE  SEA 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 

5  The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  Sea: 
Listen!  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear  child!  dear  girl!  that  walkest  with  me  here, 

10  If  thou  appear  untouch'd  by  solemn  thought 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 


354  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccix 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year, 
And  worshipp'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

W.  Wordsworth 


cccx 
SONG  TO  THE  EVENING  STAR 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  labourer  free! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  Thou 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
6  Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 
Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odours  rise, 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard 
10  And  songs  when  toil  is  done, 

From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirr'd 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 
Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse; 
15  Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 
By  absence  from  the  heart. 

T.  Campbell 

CCCXI 

DATUR  HORA  QUIET  I 

The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low. 

The  wild  birds  hush  their  song, 
The  hills  have  evening's  deepest  glow, 

Yet  Leonard  tarries  long. 
6  Now  all  whom  varied  toil  and  care 

From  home  and  love  divide, 
In  the  calm  sunset  may  repair 

Each  to  the  loved  one's  side. 


cccxiii]  Book  Fourth  355 

The  noble  dame,  on  turret  high, 

Who  waits  her  gallant  knight, 
Looks  to  the  western  beam  to  spy 

The  flash  of  armour  bright. 
5  The  village  maid,  with  hand  on  brow 

The  level  ray  to  shade, 
Upon  the  footpath  watches  now 

For  Colin's  darkening  plaid. 

Now  to  their  mates  the  wild  swans  row, 
10  By  day  they  swam  apart, 

And  to  the  thicket  wanders  slow 

The  hind  beside  the  hart. 
The  woodlark  at  his  partner's  side 

Twitters  his  closing  song — 
15  All  meet  whom  day  and  care  divide, 

But  Leonard  tarries  long! 

Sir  W.  Scott 


QCCXII 

TO  THE  MOON 

Art  th6u  pale  for  weariness 
Of  climbing  heaven,  and  gazing  on  the  earth, 

Wandering  companionless 

Among  the  stars  that  have  a  different  birth, — 
5  And  ever-changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy? 

P.  B.  Shelley 

CCCXIII 

TO  SLEEP 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 
One  after  one;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky; 
5  I've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  do  lie 
Sleepless;  and  soon  the  small  bird's  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  utter'd  from  my  orchard  trees, 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 


356  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxiii 

Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep!  by  any  stealth: 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  tonight  away: 
Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth? 
5  Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health! 

W.  Wordsworth 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had  lower'd, 

And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpower'd, 

The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 
5  When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw 

By  the  wolf-scaring  faggot  that  guarded  the  slain, 
At  the  dead  of  the  night  a,  sweet  Vision  I  saw; 

And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 
Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array 
10       Far,  far,  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track: 
'Twas  Autumn, — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 
I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young; 
15  I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers 

sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to 

part; 

My  little  ones  kiss'd  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
20       And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 
'Stay — stay    with    us! — rest! — thou    art    weary    and 

worn!' — 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay; — 
But  sorrow  return'd  with  the  dawning  of  morn,. 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away, 

T.  Campbell 


cccxv]  Book  Fourth  357 

cccxv 
A  DREAM  OF  THE  UNKNOWN 

I  dream 'd  that  as  I  wander'd  by  the  way 

Bare  Winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  Spring, 

And  gentle  odours  led  my  steps  astray, 

Mix'd  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 
5  Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 

But  kiss'd  it  and  then  fled,  as  Thou  mightest  in  dream. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 
10       Daisies,  those  peaii'd  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 

The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets; 

Faint  oxlips;  tender  blue-bells,  at  whose  birth 

The  sod  scarce  heaved;  and  that  tall  flower  that  wets 

Its  mother's  face  with  heaven-collected  tears, 
15  When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine, 

Green  cow-bind  and  the  moonlight-colour'd  May, 

And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 

Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drain'd  not  by  the  day; 
20  And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wandering  astray; 

And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streak'd  with  gold, 

Fairer  than  any  waken'd  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 
25       There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prank'd  with 

white, 
And  starry  river-buds  among  the  sedge, 

And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 
Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light; 
30  And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 
As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 
I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  wav 


358  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxv 

That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural  bowers 

Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 
Kept  these  imprison'd  children  of  the  Hours 

Within  my  hand, — and  then,  elate  and  gay, 
5  I  hasten'd  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come 
That  I  might  there  present  it — O!  to  Whom? 

P.  B.  Shelley 


KUBLA  KHAN 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
5       Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  wrere  girdled  round: 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
Where  blossom'd  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 

10  And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh!  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 
A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 

15  As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced: 

20  Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail: 
And  mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

25  Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 
Then  reach'd  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 
And  'mid  chis  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

30  Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war! 


cccxvii]  Book  Fourth  359 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 
vVhere  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
5       J>  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice! 
A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 
10  And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 
Could  I  revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me 
16       j.'hat  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome!  those  caVes  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware!  Beware! 
20       His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

S.  T.  Coleridge 


CCCXVII 

THE  INNER  VISION 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 
To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none, 
While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveller  lies 
Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon; 
3  Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene, 
The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 
Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 
The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 
— If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 
10  Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse: 
With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way- 


360  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxvii 

Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse, — 
The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 
Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 

W.  Wordsworth 


THE  REALM  OF  FANCY 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam; 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home: 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth; 
5  Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her: 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 

She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 

O  sweet  Fancy!  let  her  loose; 
10  Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming; 

Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too, 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 
15  Cloys  with  tasting:  What  do  then? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 
20  And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 

From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 
25  Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 

With  a  mind  self-overaw'd, 

Fancy,  high-commission'd: — send  herl 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her: 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 
30  Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost; 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 


cccxviii]  Book  Fourth 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth, 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth: 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 
5  Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it: — thou  shalt  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear; 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn: 
10  And,  in  the  same  moment — hark! 

'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
15  The  daisy  and  the  marigold; 

White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst; 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 

Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May; 
20  And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 

Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 

Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep; 

And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 
25  Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin; 

Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 

Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 

When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 

Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest; 
30  Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 

When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm 

Acorns  ripe  down-pattering, 

While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

Oh,  sweet  Fancy!  let  her  loose; 
35  Everything  is  spoilt  by  use: 

Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 

Too  much  gazed  at?  Where's  the  maid 

Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new? 

Where's  the  eye,  however  blue, 
40  Doth  not  weary?  Where's  the  face 

One  would  meet  in  every  place? 

Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 


362  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxviii 

One  would  hear  so  very  oft? 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 

!•*>*,  then  \ving6d  Fancy  find 
5          Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind: 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 

Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 

How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide; 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 
10          White  as  Hebe's,  when  her'  zone 

Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  the  mesh 
15  Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 

And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring. 

• — Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 

J.  Keats 


WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 

While  in  a  grove  I  sate  reclined, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 

Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 
5      To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 

The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran; 

And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 

What  Man  has  made  of  Man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  sweet  bower, 
10       The  periwinkle  trail 'd  its  wreaths;     • 

And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 

Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopp'd  and  play'd, 
•  Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure, — 
15       But  the  least  motion  which  they  made 

It  seem'd  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 


cccxx]  Hook  Fourth  36* 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan 
To  catch  the  breezy  air; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 
That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

5  If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 

If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  Man  has  made  of  Man? 

W.  Wordsworth 


cccxx 
RUTH:  OR  THE  INFLUENCES  OF  NATURE 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate 
Her  father  took  another  mate; 
And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 
A  slighted  child,  at  her  own  will 
5  Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill, 

In  thoughtless  freedom,  bold. 

And  she  had  made  a  pipe  of  straw, 
And  music  from  that  pipe  could  draw- 
Like  sounds  of  winds  and  floods; 
10  Had  built  a  bower  upon  the  green, 

As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 
An  infant  of  the  woods. 

Beneath  her  father's  roof,  alone 
She  seem'd  to  live;  her-  thoughts  her  own; 
15  Herself  her  own  delight: 

Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad  nor  gay; 
And  passing  thus  the  live-long  day, 
She  grew  to  woman's  height. 

There  came  a, youth  from  Georgia's  shore — • 
20  A  military  casque  he  wore 

With  splendid  feathers  drest; 
He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees; 
The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze 
And  made  a  gallant  crest. 


364  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxx 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung: 
But  no!  he  spake  the  English  tongue 
And  bore  a  soldier's  name; 
And,  when  America  was  free 
5  From  battle  and'from  jeopardy, 

He  'cross  the  ocean  came. 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek, 
In  finest  tones  the  youth  could  speak: 
— While  he  was  yet  a  boy 
10  The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun, 

And  streams  that  murmur  as  they  run 
Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 

He  was  a  lovely  youth!  I  gues$ 
The  panther  in  the  wilderness 
15  Was  not  so  fair  as  he; 

And  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play, 
No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 
Upon  the  tropic  sea. 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought; 
20  And  with  him  many  tales  he  brought 

Of  pleasure  and  of  fear; 
Such  tales  as,  told  to  any  maid 
By  such  a  youth,  in  the  green  shade, 
Were  perilous  to  hear. 

25  He  told  of  girls,  a  happy  rout! 

Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout, 

Their  pleasant  Indian  town, 

To  gather  straw-berries  all  day  long; 

Returning  with  a  choral  song 
30          When  daylight  is  gone  down. 

He  spake  of  plants  that  hourly  change 
Their  blossoms,  through  a  boundless  range 
Of  intermingling  hues; 
With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers, 
86          They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers 
From  morn  to  evening  dews. 

He  told  of  the  magnolia,  spread 
High  as  a  cloud,  high  .over  head! 
The  cypress  and  her  spire; 


cccxx]  Book  Fourth  365 

• — Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 
Cover  a  hundred  leagues,  and  seem 
To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 

The  youth  of  green  savannahs  spake, 
6  And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake 

With  all  its  fairy  crowds 
Of  islands,  that  together  lie 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
Among  the  evening  clouds. 

10  'How  pleasant,'  then  he  said,  'it  were 

A  fisher  or  a  hunter  there, 

In  sunshine  or  in  shade 

To  wander  with  an  easy  mind, 

And  build  a  household  fire,  and  find 
15          A  home  in  every  glade! 

'What  days  and  what  bright  years!  Ah  mel 
Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  thee 
So  pass'd  in  quiet  bliss; 
And  all  the  while,'  said  he,  'to  know 
20  That  we  were  in  a  world  of  woe, 

On  such  an  earth  as  this!' 

And  then  he  sometimes  interwove 
Fond  thoughts  about  a  father's  love, 
'For  there,'  said  he,  'are  spun 
25  Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties, 

That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes 
Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 

'Sweet  Ruth!  and  could  you  go  with  m 
My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be, 
30  Our  shed  at  night  to  rear; 

Or  run,  my  own  adopted  bride, 
A  sylvan  huntress  at  my  side, 
And  drive  the  flying  deer! 

'Beloved  Ruth!' — No  more  he  said. 
35  The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 

A  solitary  tear: 

She  thought  again — and  did  agree 
With  him  to  sail  across  the  sea, 
And  drive  the  flying  deer. 


366  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxx 

'And  now,  as  fitting  is  and  right, 
We  in  the  church  our  faith  will  plight, 
A  husband  and  a  wife.' 
Even  so  they  did;  and  I  may  say 
5       '   That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 
Was  more  than  human  life. 

Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sink, 
Delighted  all  the  while  to  think 
That,  on  those  lonesome  floods 
10  And  green  savannahs,  she  should  share 

His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 
His  name  in  the  wild  woods. 

But,  as  you  have  before  been  told, 
This  Stripling,  sportive,  gay,  and  bold, 
15  And  with  his  dancing  crest 

So  beautiful,  through  savage  lands 
Had  roam'd  about,  with  vagrant  bands 
Of  Indians  in  the  West. 

The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high, 
20          The  tumult  of  a  tropic  sky 

Might  well  be  dangerous  food 
For  him,  a  youth  to  whom  was  given 
So  much  of  earth— so  much  of  heaven, 
And  such  impetuous  blood. 

25          Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found 

Irregular  in  sight  and  sound 

Did  to  his  mind  impart 

A  kindred  impulse,  seem'd  allied 

To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 
30          The  workings  of  his  heart. 

Nor  less,  to  feed  voluptuous  thought, 
The  beauteous  forms  of  Nature  wrought, — 
Fair  trees  and  gorgeous  flowers; 
The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent; 
35  The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 

Into  those  favour'd  bowers. 

Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I  ween 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent: 


cccxx]  Book  Fourth  367 

For  passions  link'd  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment. 

But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw, 
5  With  men  to  whom  no  better  law 

Nor  better  life  was  known; 
Deliberately  and  undeceived 
Those  wild  men's  vices  he  received, 
And  gave  them  back  his  own. 

10  His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 

Were  thus  impair'd,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires: 
A  man  who  without  self-control 
Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 

15  Unworthily  admires. 

And  yet  he  with  no  feign'd  delight 
Had  woo'd  the  maiden,  day  and  night 
Had  loved  her,  night  and  morn: 
What  could  he  less  than  love  a  maid 
20  Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  play'd— 

So  kind  and  so  forlorn? 

Sometimes  most  earnestly  he  said, 
*O  Ruth!  I  have  been  worse  than  dead; 
False  thoughts,  thoughts  bold  and  vain 
25  Encompass'd  me  on  every  side 

When  t,  in  confidence  and  pride, 
Had  cross'd  the  Atlantic  main. 

'Before  me  shone  a  glorious  world 
Fresh  as  a  banner  bright,  unfurl'd 
30  To  music  suddenly: 

I  look'd  upon  those  hills  and  plains, 
And  seem'd  as  if  let  loose  from  chains 
To  live  at  liberty! 

'No  more  of  this — for  now,  by  thee, 
35  Dear  Ruth!  more  happily  set  free> 

With  nobler  zeal  I  burn; 
My  soul  from  darkness  is  released 
Like  the  whole  sky  when  to  the  east 
The  morning  doth  return.' 


368  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [ 

Full  soon  that  better  mind  was  gone; 
No  hope,  no  wish  remain'd,  not  one, — • 
They  stirr'd  him  now  no  more; 
New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give, 
5  And  once  again  he  wish'd  to  live 

As  lawless  as  before. 

Meanwhile,  as  thus  with  him  it  fared, 
They  for  the  voyage  were  prepared, 
And  went  to  the  sea-shore: 

10  But,  when  they  thither  came,  the  youth 

Deserted  his  poor  bride,  and  Ruth 
Could  never  find  him  more, 

God  help  thee,  Ruth!— Such  pains  she  had 
That  she  in  half  a  year    was  mad 
15  And  in  a  prison  housed; 

And  there,  with  many  a  doleful  song 
Made  of  wild  words,  her  cup  of  wrong 
She  fearfully  caroused. 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours  she  knew, 
20  Nor  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  nor  dew, 

Nor  pastimes  of  the  May, 
— They  all  were  with  her  in  her  cell; 
And  a  clear  brook  with  cheerful  knell 
Did  o'er  the  pebbles  play. 

25  When  Ruth  three  seasons  thus  had  lain, 

There  came  a  respite  to  her  pain; 

She  from  her  prison  fled; 

But  of  the  Vagrant  none  took  thought; 

And  where  it  liked  her  best  she  sought 
30          Her  shelter  and  her  bread. 

Among  the  fields  she  breathed  again: 
The  master-current  of  her  brain 
Ran  permanent  and  free; 
And,  coming  to  the  banks  of  Tone, 
35          There  did  she  rest;  and  dwell  alone 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  the  tools 

That  shaped  her  sorrow,  rocks  and  pools, 

And  airs  that  gently  stir 


cccxx]  Book  Fourth  369 

The  vernal  leaves — she  loved  them  still, 
Nor  ever  tax'd  them  with  the  ill 
Which  had  been  done  to  her. 

A  barn  her  Winter  bed  supplies; 
5  But,  till  the  warmth  of  Summer  skies 

And  Summer  days  is  gone, 
(And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree) 
She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
And  other  home  hath  none. 

10  An  innocent  life,  yet  far  astray! 

And  Ruth  will,  long  before  her  day, 

Be  broken  down  and  old. 

Sore  aches  she  needs  must  have!  but  less 

Of  mind,  than  body's  wretchedness, 
15  From  damp,  and  rain,  and  cold. 

If  she  is  prest  by  want  of  food 

She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 

Repairs  to  a  road-side; 

And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place 
20  Where  up  and  down  with  easy  pace 

The  horsemen-travellers  ride. 

That  oaten  pipe  of  hers  is  mute 

Or  thrown  away:  but  with  a  flute 

Her  loneliness  she  cheers; 
25  This  flute,  made  of  a  hemlock  stalk, 

At  evening  in  his  homeward  walk 

The  Quantock  woodman  hears. 

I,  too,  ha\;e  pass'd  her  on  the  hills 

Setting  her  little  water-mills 
W  By  spouts  and  fountains  wild — 

Such  small  machinery  as  she  turn'd 

Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourn'd,— « 

A  young  and  happy  child! 

Farewell!  and  when  thy  days  are  told, 
35  Ill-fated  Ruth!  in  hallow'd  mould 

Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be; 

For  thee  a  funeral  bell  shall  ring, 

And  all  the  congregation  sing 

A  Christian  psalm  for  thee. 

W.  Wordsworth 


370  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxxi 


WRITTEN  AMONG  THE 
EUGANEAN  HILLS 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  Misery, 
Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 
Never  thus  could  voyage  on 
5          Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 
Drifting  on  his  dreary  way, 
With  the  solid  darkness  black 
Closing  round  his  vessel's  track: 
Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky 

10  Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily, 

And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 
Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet, 
Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank, 
Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 

15  Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep; 

And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 
When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 
Weltering  through  eternity; 
And  the  dim  low  line  before 

20  Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 
Longing  with  divided  will, 
But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 
He  is  ever  drifted  on 

25          O'er  the  unreposing  wave, 
To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

Ah,  many  flowering  islands  lie 
In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony: . 
To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 

30          My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted. 
— 'Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 
I  stood  listening  to  the  paean 
With  which  the  legion'd  rooks  did  hail 
The  Sun's  uprise  majestical: 

35          Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 


cccxxi]  Book  Fourth  371 

Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 
Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 
Bursts;  and  then, — as  clouds  of  even 
Fleck'd  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 
3  In  the  unfathomable  sky, — 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain 
Starr'd  with  drops  of  golden  rain 
Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods, 
As  in  silent  multitudes 

10  On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 

Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail; 
And  the  vapours  cloven  and  gleaming 
Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming;, 
Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still 

16  Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 

The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 

Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 

Islanded  by  cities  fair; 
20.          Underneath  Day's  azure  eyes, 

Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies, — 

A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 

Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 

Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
25  With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 

Lo!  the  sun  upsprings  behind, 

Broad,  red,  radiant,  half-reclined 

On  the  level  quivering  line 

Of  the  waters  crystalline; 
30  And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 

As  within  a  furnace  bright, 

Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire, 

Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 

Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
35  From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 

To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies; 

As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 

From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise 

As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
40         •  Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City!  thou  hast  been 


372  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxxi 

Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen; 

Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 

And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 

If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
.5          Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 

.A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 

With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 

Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 

From  thy  throne  among  the  waves 
10          Wilt  thou  be, — when  the  sea-mew 

Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 

O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 

And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 

Save  where  many  a  palace-gate 
15  With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 

Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 

Topples  o'er  the  abandon'd  sea 

As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 

The  fisher  on  his  watery  way 
20          Wandering  at  the  close  of  day, 

Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 

Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 

Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep. 

Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep, 
25  Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 

O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Noon  descends  around  me  now: 

'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow 

When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 
30          Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 

Or  an  air-dissolve'd  star 

Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 

From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 

To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 
35  Fills  the  overflowing  sky; 

And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 

Underneath;  the  leaves  unsodden 

Where  the  infant  Frost  has  trodden 

With  his  morning-winged  feet 
4(y          Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet; 

And  the  red  and  golden  vines 


cccxxi]  Book  Fourth  373 

Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 

The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 
5          In  the  windless  air;  the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet;  the  line 

Of  the  olive-sandall'd  Apennine 

In  the  south  dimly  islanded; 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 
10  High  between  the  clouds  and  sun; 

And  of  living  things  each  one; 

And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 

Darken 'd  this  swift  stream  of  song, — 

Interpenetrated  lie 
15  By  the  glory  of  the  sky; 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odour,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse, 
20          Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 

Leading  the  infantine  moon 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 
25  Almost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs: 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 

(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 
30  To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

'Mid  remember'd  agonies, 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being), 

Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing, 

And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 
35  Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 
In  the  sea  of  Life  and  Agony: 
Other  spirits  float  and  flee 
O'er  that  gulf:  Ev'n  now,  perhaps, 
40  On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 


374  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxxi 

With  folded  wings  they  waiting  sit 

For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove; 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 
5          May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 

In  a  dell  'mid  lawny  liills 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills, 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 
10  Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine. 

• — We  may  live  so  happy  there, 

That  the  Spirits  of  the  Air 
15          Envying  us,  may  ev'n  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude: 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm, 
20          And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 
25          The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies; 

And  the  Love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life, 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 
30  With  its  own  mild  brotherhood: — 

They,  not  it,  would  change;  and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain, 

And  the  Earth  grow  young  again. 

P.  B,  Shelley 


cccxxii]  Book  Fourth  375 

CCCXXII 

ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 
Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
5  Pestilence-stricken  multitudes!  O  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 
The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 
10  Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill: 
Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  Preserver;  Hear,  oh  hear! 

15      Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  com- 
motion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean, 
Angels  of  rain  and  lightning!  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 

20  Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  ev'n  from  the  dim  verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height — 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 
Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 

25  Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 
Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail,  will  burst:  Oh  hear! 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer-dreams 
30  The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 

Lull'd  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 
Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Qu'vering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 


376  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxxii 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flowers 
So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them!     Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 
Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
5  The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 
Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  Oh  hearl 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 

10  If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 
The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  Thou,  O  uncontrollable!  If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

15  The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seem'd  a  vision, — I  would  ne'er  have  striven 
As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh!  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud! 

20  I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!  I  bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chain'd  and  bow'd 
One  too  like  thee — tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  ev'n  as  the  forest  is: 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own! 

25  The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit!  be  thou  me,  impetuous  one! 
Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe, 

30  Like  wither'd  leaves,  to  quicken  a  new  birth; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 
Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguish'd  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawaken'd  earth 

35  The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy:  O  Wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind? 

P.  B.  Shelley 


cccxxiii]  Book  Fourth  377 


NATURE  AND  THE  POET 

by  a  Picture  of  Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm, 
painted  by  Sir  George  Beaumont 

I  was  thy  neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  Pile! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  thee: 
I  saw  thee  every  day;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  Form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

5  So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air! 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day! 
Whene'er  I  look'd,  thy  image  still  was  there; 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  pass'd  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm!  It  seem'd  no  sleep, 
10  No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or  brings: 
I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  Deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  things. 

Ah!  then — if  mine  had  been  the  painter's  hand 
To  express  what  then  I  saw;  and  add  the  gleam 
15  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet's  dream, — • 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  pile, 
Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this! 
Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile; 
20  On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

Thou  shouldst  have  seem'd  a  treasure-house  divine 
Of  peaceful  years;  a  chronicle  of  heaven; — 
Of  all  the  sunbeams  that  did  ever  shine 
The  very  sweetest  had  to  thee  been  given. 

25  A  picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 
Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide;  a  breeze; 
Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life, 


378-  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxxiii 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 

Such  picture  would  I  at  that  time  have  made; 

And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part, 

A  steadfast  peace  that  might  not  be  betray 'd. 

5  So  once  it  would  have  been, — 'tis  so  no  more; 
I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control: 
A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore; 
A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 
10  A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been: 
The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old; 
This,  which  I  know,  I  speak  with  mind  serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend  1  who  would  have  been  the 

friend 

If  he  had  lived,  of  Him  whom  I  deplore, 
15  This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  commend; 
This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

0  'tis  a  passionate  work! — yet  wise  and  well, 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here; 

That  hulk  which  labours  in  the  deadly  swell, 
20  This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear  I 

And  this  huge  Castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

1  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves, 

• — Caged  in  the  unfeeling  armour  of  old  time—- 
The lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 

25  — Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives  alone 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the  Kind  I 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied;  for  'tis  surely  blind. 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 
30  And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  here: — • 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 

W.  Wordsworth 


cccxxv]  Book  Fourth.  379 


THE  POET'S  DREAM 

On  a  Poet's  lips  I  slept 

Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept; 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses, 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  Thought's  wildernesses, 

He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 

Nor  heed  nor  see  what  things  they  be — 
But  from  these  create  he  can 
Forms  more  real  than  living  Man, 

Nurslings  of  Immortality! 

P.  B.  Shelley 


GLEN-ALMA1N,  THE  NARROW  GLEN 

In  this  still  place,  remote  from  men, 

Sleeps  Ossian,  in  the  Narrow  Glen; 

In  this  still  place,  where  murmurs  on 

But  one  meek  streamlet,  only  one: 
5  He  sang  of  battles,  and  the  breath 

Of  stormy  war,  and  violent  death; 

And  should,  methinks,  \vhen  all  was  past, 

Have  rightfully  been  laid  at  last 

Where  rocks  were  rudely  heap'd,  and  rent 
10  As  by  a  spirit  turbulent; 

Where  sights  were  rough,  and  sounds  were  wild. 

And  everything  unreconciled; 

In  some  complaining,  dim  retreat, 

For  fear  and  melancholy  meet; 
15  But  this  is  calm;  there  cannot  b« 

A  more  entire  tranquillity. 


380  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxxv 

Does  then  the  Bard  sleep  here  indeed? 

Or  is  it  but  a  groundless  creed? 

What  matters  it? — I  blame  them  not 

Whose  fancy  in  this  lonely  spot 
5  Was  moved;  and  in  such  way  express'd 

Their  notion  of  its  perfect  rest. 

A  convent,  even  a  hermit's  cell, 

Would  break  the  silence  of  this  Dell: 

It  is  not  quiet,  is  not  ease; 
10  But  something  deeper  far  than  these: 

The  separation  that  is  here 

Is  of  the  grave;  and  of  austere 

Yet  happy  feelings  of  the  dead: 

And,  therefore,  was  it  rightly  said 
15  That  Ossian,  last  of  all  his  race! 

Lies  buried  in  this  lonely  place. 

W.  Wordsworth 


The  World  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers; 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  pur  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
5  This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours 
And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers, 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
10  A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, — - 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

W.  Wordsworth 


cccxxviii]  Book  Fourth  381 


CCCXXVII 

WITHIN  KING'S  COLLEGE  CHAPEL, 
CAMBRIDGE 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  expense, 
With  ill-match'd  aims  the  Architect  who  plann'd 
(Albeit  labouring  for  a  scanty  band 
Of  white-robed  Scholars  only)  this  immense 
5  And  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence! 
— Give  all  thou  canst;  high  Heaven  rejects  the  lore 
Of  nicely-calculated  less  or  more: — 
So  deem'd  the  man  who  fashion'd  for  the  sense 
These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 
10  Self-poised,  and  scoop'd  into  ten  thousand  cells 
Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music  dwells 
Lingering — and  wandering  on  as  loth  to  die; 
Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

W.  Wordsworth 


CCCXXVIII 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme 
•5  What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these?  What  maidens  loth? 

What  mad  pursuit?  What  struggle  to  escape? 
.10  What  pipes  and  timbrels?  What  wild  ecstasy?. 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 

Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 


382  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxxviii 

Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve; 
5       She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs!  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 
10       For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new; 

More  happy  love!  more  happy,  happy  love! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 

For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
15       That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 

Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

20       And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest? 

What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
25       Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 

Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape!  Fair  attitude!  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 
30       Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity:  Cold  Pastoral! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
•  Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man.  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
35       'Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,' — that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

J.  Keats 


cccxxix]  Book  Fourth  383 

CCCXXIX 

YOUTH  AND  AGE 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying, 

Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee— 

Both  were  mine!  Life  went  a-maying 

With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 
5  When  I  was  young! 

When  I  was  young?  —  Ah,  woful  when! 

Ah!  for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and  Then! 

This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 

This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
10       O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands 

How  lightly  then  it  flash'd  along: 

Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 

On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 

That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
15       That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide! 

Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather 

When  youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 
Flowers  are  lovely;  Love  is  flower-like; 

Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree; 
20       O!  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like, 

Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 
Ere  I  was  old! 

Ere  I  was  old?  Ah  woful  Ere, 

Which  tells  me,  Youth's  no  longer  herel 
25       O  Youth!  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 

'Tis  known  that  Thou  and  I  were  one, 

I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit  — 
.    It  cannot  be,  that  Thou  art  gone! 

Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd:  — 
30       And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold! 

What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on 

To  make  believe  that  Thou  art  gone? 


I  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 

This  drooping  gait,  this  alter  'd 

35       But  Springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 


And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes! 
Life  is  but  Thought:  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 


384  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  fee 

Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
5  When  we  are  old: 

— That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave, 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist, 
10          Yet  hath  out-stay 'd  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 

S.  T.  Coleridge 


cccxxx 
THE  TWO  APRIL  MO RX INGS 

We  walk'd  along,  while  bright  and  red 
Uprose  the  morning  sun; 
And  Matthew  stopp'd,  he  look'd,  and  said 
'The  will  of  God  be  done!' 

6  A  village  schoolmaster  was  he, 

With  hair  of  glittering  gray; 
As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass 
10  And  by  the  steaming  rills 

We  travell'd  merrily,  to  pass 
A  day  among  the  hills. 

'Our  work,'  said  L  'was  well  begun; 
Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 
15  Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun, 

So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought?' 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop; 
And  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 
20  To  me  he  made  reply: 


cccxxx]  Book  Fourth  385 

'Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 
Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A  day  like  this,  which  I  have  left 
Full  thirty  years  behind. 

5  'And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 

Such  colours,  and  no  other. 
Were  in  the  sky  that  April  morn, 
Of  this  the  very  brother. 

'With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 
10  Which  that  sweet  season  gave, 

And  to  the  church-yard  come,  stopp'd  short 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

'Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 
The  pride  of  all  the  vale; 

15          And  then  she  sang, — she  would  have  been 
A  very  nightingale. 

'Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay; 
And  yet  I  loved  her  more — 
For  so  it  seem'd, — than  till  that  day 
20          I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

'And  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met, 
Beside  the  churchyard  yew, 
A  blooming  Girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 

25  'A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare; 

Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white: 
To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 
It  was  a  pure  delight! 

'No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 
30  E'er  tripped  with  foot  so  free; 

She  seem'd  as  happy  as  a  wave 
That  dances  on  the  sea. 

'There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 
Which  I  could  ill  confine; 
35  I  look'd  at  her,  and  look'd  again: 

And  did  not  wish  her  mine!' 


3*6  t'aigrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxxx 

— Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now 
Methinks  I  see  him  stand 
As  at  that  moment,  with  a  bough 
Of  wilding  in  his  hand 

W.  Wordsworth 


cccxxxi 

THE  FOUNTAIN 
A  Conversation 

We  talk'd  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  Was  young, 
And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

5  We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 

Beside  a  mossy  seat; 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke 
And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

'Now,  Matthew!'  said  I,  'let  us  match 
10  This  water's  pleasant  tune 

With  some  old  border-song,  or  catch 
That  suits  a  summer's  noon; 

'Or  of  the  church -clock  and  the  chimes 
Sing  here  beneath  the  shade 
15          That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
Which  you  last  April  made!' 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
The  spring  beneath  tho  tree; 
And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 
20  The  gray-hair'd  man  of  glee: 

'No  check,  no  stay,  this  Streamlet  fears, 
How  merrily  it  goes! 
'Twill  murmur  on  a  thousand  years 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 


occxxxi]  Book  Fourth  387 

'And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 
I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 
Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

5  'My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirr'd, 
For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 
Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

'Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay: 
10  And  yet  the  wiser  mind 

Mourns  less  for  what  Age  takes  away, 
Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

'The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 
The  lark  above  the  hill, 

15  Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 

Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

'With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 
A  foolish  strife;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
20          Is  beautiful  and  free: 

'But  we  are  press'd  by  heavy  laws; 
And  often,  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 
We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

25  'If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 

His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, — 
It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

'My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone, 
30  My  life  has  been  approved, 

And  many  love  me;  but  by  none 
Am  I  enough  beloved.' 

'Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains! 
35  I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 

Upon  these  happy  plains: 


388  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  [cccxxxi 

'And  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead 
I'll  be  a  son  to  thee!' 
At  this  he  grasp'd  my  hand  and  said, 
'Alas!  that  cannot  be.' 

'  5          — We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side; 
And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide; 
And  through  the  wood  we  went; 

And  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  rock 
10  He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 

About  the  crazy  old  church-clock, 
And  the  bewilder'd  chimes. 

W.  Wordsworth 


THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

The  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 

Our  life's  succeeding  stages: 
A  day  to  childhood  seems  a  year, 

And  years  like  passing  ages. 

5          The  gladsome  current  of  our  youth, 

Ere  passion  yet  disorders, 
Steals  lingering  like  a  river  smooth 
Along  its  grassy  borders. 

But  as  the  care-worn  cheek  grows  wan, 
10  And  sorrow's  shafts  fly  thicker, 

Ye  Stars,  that  measure  life  to  man, 
Why  seem  your  courses  quicker? 

When  joys  have  lost  their  bloom  and  breath 

And  life  itself  is  vapid, 

15          Why,  as  we  reach  the  Falls  of  Death 
Feel  we  its  tide  more  rapid? 

It  may  be  strange — yet  who  would  change 

Time's  course  to  slower  speeding, 
When  one  by  one  our  friends  have  gone 
20  And  left  our  bosoms  bleeding? 


cccxxxiv]  Book  Fourth  389 

Heaven  gives  our  years  of  fading  strength. 

Indemnifying  fleetness; 
And  those  of  youth,  a  seeming  length, 

Proportion'd  to  their  sweetness. 

T.  Campbell 


CCCXXXIII 

THE  HUMAN  SEASONS 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year; 
There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man: 
He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 
Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span: 
5  He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 

Spring's  honey'd  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  high 
Is  nearest  unto  heaven:  quiet  coves 
His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 
10  He  furleth  close;  contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness — to  let  fair  things 
Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 
He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature, 
Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 

J.  Keats 


CCCXXXIV 

A  DIRGE 

Rough  wind,  that  meanest  loud 

Grief  too  sad  for  song; 
Wild  wind,  when  sullen  cloud 

Knells  all  the  night  long; 
Sad  storm  whose  tears  are  vain, 
Bare  woods  whose  branches  stain, 
Deep  caves  and  dreary  main, — 

\\ail  for  the  world's  wrong! 

P.  B.  Shelley 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 


THRENOS 

O  World!  O  Life!  O  Time! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before; 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime? 
No  more — Oh,  never  more! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight: 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  more — Oh,  never  more! 

P.  B.  Shelley 


cccxxxvi 
THE  TROSACHS 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass, 
But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  One 
Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 
That  Life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 
5  Wither'd  at  eve.     From  scenes  of  art  which  chase 
That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 
Feed  it  .'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 
Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than  glass 
Untouch'd,  unbreathed  upon: — Thrice  happy  quest, 
10  If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 
(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May), 
The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  -breast 
That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught  lay, 
Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest! 

W.  Wordsworth 


cccxxxviii]  Book  Fourth  391 

CCCXXXVII 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky  : 
So  was  it  when  my  "life  began, 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 
5  So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old 

Or  let  me  die! 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man: 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

W.  Wordsworth 

CCCXXXVIII 

ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 

FROM  'RECOLLECTIONS  OF  EARLY 

CHILDHOOD 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight 

To  me.  did  seem 
Apparell'd  in  celestial  light, 
5  The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

10  The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  rose; 
The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare; 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 
15  Are  beautiful  and  fair; 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song. 
20  And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 


392  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury         [cccxxxviii 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong. 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep; — 
5  No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong: 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea 
10          Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday; — 

Thou  child  of  joy 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
Shepherd-boy! 

15  Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 

20  The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel— I  feel  it  all. 
Oh  evil  day!  if  I  were  sullen 
"While  Earth  herself  is  adorning 

This  sweet  May-morning; 
And  the  children  are  culling 
25  On  every  side 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm: — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear! 
30  — But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 

A  single  field  which  I  have  look'd  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone: 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 
35  Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 

Where  it  is  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting; 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting 
40  And  cometh  from  afar; 


cccxxxviii]  Book  Fourth 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  .in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  we  do  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home: 
5  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 

10  The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  trayel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
15  And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

20  The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 

To  make  ner  foster-child,  her  inmate,  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
25  A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 

See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
30  Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 
A  wedding  or  a  festival, 
A  mourning  or  a  funeral; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 
35  And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 
But  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 
40  And  with  new  joy  and  pride 


394  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury         [cccxxxviii 

The  little  actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  'humorous  stage' 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 
5  As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
10  Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 

That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  Mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet!  Seer  blest! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest 
15  Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 
20  Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 
25  Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 

O  joy!  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 
30  That  Nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction:  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest, 
35  Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast: — 
— Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 
40  But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 


cccxxxviii]  Book  Fourth  395 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
5  High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprized: 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
10  Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:  truths  that  wake, 
15  To  perish  never; 

Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  man  nor  boy 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy! 
20  Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither — 
25  And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then,  sing  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 

30  We,  in  thought,  will  join  your  throng 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
35  Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 
40  In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 


396  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury         [cccxxxviii 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

5  And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forbode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might; 

I  only  have  relinquish'd  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway: 
10  I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripp'd  lightly  as  they; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 
Is  lovely  yet; 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
15  Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 

That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 

Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
20  To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

W.  Wordsworth 


cccxxxix 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory — 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 

Are  heap'd  for  the  beloved's  bed; 

And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  Thou  art  gone, 

Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


NOTES 
INDEX   OF  WRITERS 

AND 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


NOTES 

(1861—1891) 
Summary  of  Book  First 

THE  Elizabethan  Poetry,  as  it  is  rather  vaguely  termed,  forms 
the  substance  of  this  Book,  which  contains  pieces  from  Wyat 
under  Henry  VIII  to  Shakespeare  midway  through  the  reign 
of  James  I,  and  Drummond  who  carried  on  the  early  manner 
to  a  still  later  period.  There  is  here  a  wide  range  of  style; — 
from  simplicity  expressed  in  a  language  hardly  yet  broken-in 
to  verse, — through  the  pastoral  fancies  and  Italian  conceits  of 
the  strictly  Elizabethan  time, — to  the  passionate  reality  of  Shake- 
speare: yet  a  general  uniformity  of  tone  prevails.  Few  readers 
can  fail  to  observe  the  natural  sweetness  of  the  verse,  the  single- 
hearted  straightforwardness  of  the  thoughts: — nor  less,  the  limi- 
tation of  subject  to  the  many  phases  of  one  passion,  which  then 
characterized  our  lyrical  poetry, — unless  when,  as  in  especial 
with  Shakespeare,  the  'purple  light  of  Love'  is  tempered  by  a 
spirit  of  sterner  reflection.  For  the  didactic  verse  of  the  century, 
although  lyrical  in  form,  yet  very  rarely  rises  to  the  pervading 
emotion,  the  golden  cadence,  proper  to  the  lyric. 
.  It  should  be  observed  that  this  and  the  following  Summaries 
apply  in  the  main  to  the  Collection  here  presented,  in  which 
(besides  its  restriction  to  Lyrical  Poetry)  a  strictly  representa- 
tive or  historical  Anthology  has  not  been  aimed  at.  Great 
excellence,  in  human  art  as  in  human  character,  has  from  the 
beginning  of  things  been  even  more  uniform  than  mediocrity, 
by  virtue  of  the  closeness  of  its  approach  to  Nature: — and  so 
far  as  the  standard  of  Excellence  kept  in  view  has  been  attained 
in  this  volume,  a  comparative  absence  of  extreme  or  temporary 
phases  in  style,  a  similarity  of  tone  and  manner,  will  be  found 
throughout: — something  neither  modern  nor  ancient,  but  true 
and  speaking  to  the  heart  of  man  alike  throughout  all  ages. 

399 


400  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

PAGE    NO. 

62    iii     whist:  hushed,  quieted. 

—  iv  Rouse  Memnon's  mother:  Awaken  the  Dawn  from  the 
dark  Earth  and  the  clouds  where  she  is  resting.  This 
is  one  of  that  limited  class  of  early  mythes  which  may 
be  reasonably  interpreted  as  representations  of  natural 
phenomena.  Aurora  in  the  old  mythology  is  mother 
of  Memnon  (the  East),  and  wife  of  Tithonus  (the  appear- 
ances of  Earth  and  Sky  during  the  last  hours  of  Night). 
She  leaves  him  every  morning  in  renewed  youth,  to 
prepare  the  way  for  Phoebus  (the  Sun),  whilst  Tithonus 
remains  in  perpetual  old  age  and  grayness. 

53  —     1.   23  by  Peneus'  stream:  Phoebus  loved  the  Nymph 

Daphne  whom  he  met  by  the  river  Peneus  in  the  vale 
of  Tempe,  L.  27  Amphion's  lyre:  He  was  said  to  have 
built  the  walls  of  Thebes  to  the  sound  of  his  music. 
L.  35  Night  like  a  drunkard  reels:  Compare  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  Act  II,  Scene  3:  'The  grey-eyed  morn  smiles,' 
&c. — It  should  be  added  that  three  lines,  which  appeared 
hopelessly  misprinted,  have  been  omitted  in  this  Poem. 

54  vi     Time's  chest:  in  which  he  is  figuratively  supposed  to 

lay  up  past  treasures.  So  in  Troilus,  Act  III,  Scene 
3,  'Time  hath  a  wallet  at  his  back',  &c.  In  the  Arcadia, 
chest  is  used  to  signify  tomb. 

55  vii     A  fine  example  of  the  highwrought  and  conventional 

Elizabethan  Pastoralism,  which  it  would  be  unreas9n- 
able  to  criticise  on  the  ground  of  the  unshepherdlike 
or  unreal  character  of  some  images  suggested.  Stanza 
6  was  perhaps  inserted  by  Izaak  Walton. 

56  viii     This  beautiful  lyric  is  one  of  several  recovered  from 

the  very  rare  Elizabethan  Song-books,  for  the  publi- 
cation of  which  our  thanks  are  due  to  Mr.  A.  H.  Bullen 
(1887,  1888). 

58  xii     One  stanza  has  been  here  omitted,  in  acc9rdance  with 

the  principle  noticed  in  the  Preface.  Similar  omis- 
sions occur  in  a  few  other  poems.  The  more  serious 
abbreviation  by  which  it  has  been  attempted  to  bring 
Crashaw's  'Wishes'  and  Shelley's  'Euganean  Hills,' 
with  one  or  two  more,  within  the  scheme  of  this  selec- 
tion, is  commended  with  much  diffidence  to  the  judg- 
ment of  readers  acquainted  with  the  original  pieces. 

59  xiii     Sidney's  poetry  is  singularly  unequal;  his  short  life, 

his  frequent  absorption  in  public  employment,  hin- 
dered doubtless  the  development  of  his  genius.  His 
great  contemporary  fame,  second  only,  it  appears,  to 
Spenser's,  has  been  hence  obscured.  At  times  he  is 
heavy  and  even  prosaic;  his  simplicity  is  rude  and  bare; 
his  verse  unmdpdious.  These,  however,  are  the  'de- 
fects of  his  merits.'  In  a  certain  depth  and  chivalry 
of  feeling, — in  the  rare  and  noble  quality  of  disinter- 
estedness (to  put  it  in  one  word), — he  has  no  superior, 
hardly  perhaps  an  equal,  amongst  our  Poets;  and  after 
or  beside  Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  his  Astrophel  and 


Notes  401 

PAGE   NO. 

Stella,  in  the  Editor's  judgment,  offers  the  most  intense 
and  powerful  picture  of  the  passion  of  love  in  the  whole 
range  of  our  poetry. — Hundreds  of  years:  'The  very 
rapture  of  love,'  says  Mr.  Ruskin;  'A  lover  like  this 
does  not  believe  his  mistress  can  grow  old  or  die.' 
62  xix  Readers  who  have  visited  Italy  will  be  reminded  of 
more  than  one  picture  by  this  gorgeous  Vision  of  Beauty, 
equally  sublime  and  pure  in  its  Paradisaical  natural- 
ness. Lodge  wrote  it  on  a  voyage  to  'the  Islands  of 
Terceras  and  the  Canaries;'  and  he  seems  to  have  caught, 
in  those  southern  seas,  no  small  portion  of  the  qualities 
which  marked  the  almost  contemporary  Art  of  Venice, 
— the  glory  and  the  glow  of  Veronese,  Titian,  or  Tin- 
toret. — From  the  same  romance  is  No.  71:  a  charm- 
ing picture  in  the  purest  style  of  the  later  Italian  Renais- 
sance. 

The  clear  (1.  1)  is  the  crystalline  or  outermost  heaven 
of  the  old  cosmography.  For  a  fair  there's  fairer  none: 
If  you  desire  a  Beauty,  there  is  none  more  beautiful 
than  Rosaline. 

64  xxii     Another  gracious  lyric  from  an   Elizabethan   Song- 

book,  first  reprinted  (it  is  believed)  in  Mr.  W.  J.  Lin- 
ton's  'Rare  Poems,'  in  1883. 

65  xxiii     that  fair  thou  owest:  that  beauty  thou  ownest. 

66  xxv     From  one  of  the  three  Song-books  of  T.  Campion, 

who  appears  to  have  been  author  of  the  words  which 
he  set  to  music.  His  merit  as  a  lyrical  poet  (recognized 
in  his  own  time,  but  since  then  forgotten)  has  been 
again  brought  to  light  by  Mr.  Bullen's  taste  and  re- 
search:— swerving  (st.  2)  is  his  conjecture  for  chang- 
ing in  the  text  of  1601. 

70  xxxi  the  star  Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height 
be  taken:  apparently,  Whose  stellar  influence  is  uncal- 
culated,  although  his  angular  altitude  from  the  plane 
of  the  astrolabe  or  artificial  horizon  used  by  astrologers- 
has  been  determined. 

70  xxxii  This  lovely  song  appears,  as  here  given,  in  Putten- 
ham's  'Arte  of  English  Poesie,'  1589.  A  longer  and 
inferior  form  was  published  in  the  'Arcadia'  of  1590; 
but  Puttenham's  prefatory  words  clearly  assign  his 
version  to  Sidney's  own  authorship. 

73  xxxvii     keel:  keep  cooler  by  stirring  round. 

74  xxxix     expense:  loss. 
—     xl     prease:  press. 

75  xli     Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light:  when  a  star  has 

risen  and  entered  on  the  full  stream  of  light; — another 

of  the  astrological  phrases  no  longer  familiar. 

Crooked  eclipses:  as  coming  athwart  the  Sun's  apparent 

course. 

Wordsworth,  thinking  probably  of  the  'Venus'  and  the 

'Lucrece,'    said    finely    of    Shakespeare:    'Shakespeare 


402  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

PAGE   NO. 

could  not  have  written  an  Epic;  he  would  have  died 
of  plethora  of  thought.'  This  prodigality  of  nature  is 
exemplified  equally  in  his  Sonnets.  The  copious  selec- 
tion here  given  (which  from  the  wealth  of  the  material, 
required  greater  consideration  than  any  other  portion 
of  the  Editor's  task), — contains  many  that  will  not  be 
fully  felt  and  understood  without  some  earnestness  of 
thought  on  the  reader's  part.  But  .he  is  not  likely  to 
regret  the  labour. 

76  xlii  upon  misprision  growing:  either,  granted  in  error,  or, 
on  the  growth  of  contempt. 

—  xliii     With    the    tone    of    this    Sonnet    compare    Hamlet's 

'Give  me  that  man  That  is  not  passion's  slave,'  &c. 
Shakespeare's  writings  show  the  deepest  sensitiveness 
to  passion: — hence  the  attraction  he  felt  in  the  con- 
trasting effects  of  apathy. 

76  xliv  grame:  sorrow.  Renaissance  influences  long  impeded 
the  return  of  English  poets  to  the  charming  realism 
of  this  and  a  few  other  poems  by  Wyat. 

78  xlv     Pandion  in  the  ancient  fable  was  father  to  Philomela. 

79  xlvii     In  the  old  legend  it  is  now  Philomela,  now  Procne 

(the  swallow)  who  suffers  violence  from  Tereus.  This 
song  has  a  fascination  in  its  calm  intensity  of  passion; 
that  'sad  earnestness  and  vivid  exactness'  which  Car- 
dinal Newman  ascribes  to  the  master-pieces  of  ancient 
poetry. 

81  1     proved:  approved. 

—  li     censures:  judges. 

—  lii     Exquisite  in  its  equably-balanced  metrical  flow. 

82  liii     Judging  by  its  style,   this  beautiful   example  of  old 

simplicity  and  feeling  may,  perhaps,  he  referred  to  the 
earlier  years  of  Elizabeth.  Late  forgot:  lately. 

85  Mi     Printed   in   a  little   Anthology   by    Nicholas   Breton, 

1597.  It  is,  however,  a  stronger  and  finer  piece  of 
work  than  any  known  to  be  his.- — St.  1  silly:  simple; 
dole:  grief;  chief:  chiefly.  St.  3  If  there  be  .  .  .  :  ob- 
scure: Perhaps,  if  there  be  any  who  speak  harshly  of 
thee,  .thy  pain  may  plead  for  pity  from  Fate. 
This  poem,  with  60  and  143,  are  each  graceful  varia- 
tions of  a  long  popular  theme. 

86  Iviii     That    busy   archer:    Cupid.     Descries:   used    actively; 

points  out. — 'The  last  line  of  this  poem  is  a  little  ob- 
scured by  transposition.  He  means,  Do  they  call  un- 
gratefulness there  a  virtue?'  (C.  Lamb). 

87  1'ix     White  lope:  suggested,  Mr.  Bullen  notes,  by  a  passage 

in  Propertius  (iii,  20)  describing  Spirits  in  the  lower 
world: 

Vobiscum  est  lope,  vobiscum  Candida  Tyro. 

88  Ixii     cymes  or  Cyprus, — used  by  the  old  writers  for  crape: 

whether  from  the  French  crespe  or  from  the  Island 
whence  it  was  imported.  Its  accidental  similarity  in 


Notes  403 

PAGE    NO. 

spelling  to  cypress  has,  here  and  in  Milton's  Penseroso, 
probably  confused  readers. 

89     Ixiii    ramage:  confused  noise. 

91  Ixvi  'I  never  saw  anything  like  this  funeral  dirge,'  says 
Charles  Lamb,  'except  the  ditty  which  reminds  Fer- 
dinand of  his  drowned  father  in  the  Tempest.  AS  that 
is  of  the  water,  watery;  so  this  is  of  the  earth,  earthy. 
Both  have  that  intenseness  of  feeling,  which  seems  to 
resolve  itself  into  the  element  which  it  contemplates.' 

93  Ixx     Paraphrased  from  an  Italian  madrigal 

.     .     Non  so  conoscer  pci 
Se  voi  le  rose,  o  sian  le  rose  in  vol. 

94  Ixxii     crystal:  fairness. 

95  Ixxiii     stare:  starling. 

—  Ixxiv     This  'Spousal  Verse'  was  written  in  honour  of  the 

Ladies  Elizabeth  and  Katherine  Somerset.  Nowhere 
has  Spenser  more  emphatically  displayed  himself  as 
the  very  poet  of  Beauty:  The  Renaissance  impulse  in 
England  is  here  seen  at  its  highest  and  purest. 
The  genius  of  Spenser,  like  Chaucer's,  does  itself  justice 
only  in  poems  of  some  length.  Hence  it  is  impossible 
to  represent  it  in  this  volume  by  other  pieces  of  equal 
merit,  but  of  impracticable  dimensions.  And  the  same 
applies  to  such  poems  as  the  Lover's  Lament  or  the 
Ancient  Mariner. 

96  —     entrailed:  twisted,     Feateously:  elegantly. 

98  —     shend:  shame. 

99  —     a  noble  peer:   Robert   Devereux,   second   Lord   Essex, 

then  at  the  height  of  his  brief  triumph  after  taking 
Cadiz:  hence  the  allusion  following  to  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules,  placed  near  Gades  by  ancient  legend. 

—  —     Elisa:  Elizabeth. 

100  —  twins  of  Jove:  the  stars  Castor  and  Pollux:  baldric, 
belt;  the  zodiac. 

102  Ixxix  This  lyric  may  with  very  high  probability  be  as- 
signed to  Campion,  in  whose  first  Book  of  Airs  it  ap- 
peared (1601).  The  evidence  sometimes  quoted  ascrib- 
ing it  to  Lord  Bacon  appears  to  be  valueless. 


Summary  of  Book  Second. 

THIS  division,  embracing  generally  the  latter  eighty  years  of 
the  Seventeenth  century,  contains  the  close  of  our  Early  poetical 
style  afid  the  commencement  of  the  Modern.  In  Drylcn  we 
see  the  first  master  of  the  new:  in  Milton,  whose  genius  dominates 
here  as  Shakespeare's  in  the  former  book, — the  crown  and  con- 
summation of  the  early  period.  Their  splendid  Odes  are  far 
in  advance  of  any  prior  attempts,  Spenser's  except ed:  they 


404  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 


exhibit  that  wider  and  grander  range  which  years  and  experience 
•and  the  struggles  of  the  time  conferred  on  Poetry.  Our  Muses 
now  give  expression  to  political  feeling,  to  religious  thought,  to 
a  high  philosophic  statesmanship  in  writers  such  as  Marvell, 
Herbert,  and  Wotton:  whilst  in  Marvell  and  Milton,  again,  we 
find  noble  attempts,  hitherto  rare  in  our  literature,  at  pure 
•description  of  nature,  destined  in  our  own  age  to  be  continued 
and  equalled.  Meanwhile  the  poetry  of  simple  passion,  although 
before  1660  often  deformed  by  verbal  fancies  and  conceits  of 
thought,  and  afterwards  by  levity  and  an  artificial  tone,  —  pro- 
duced in  Herrick  and  Waller  some  charming  pieces  of  more  fin- 
ished art  than  the  Elizabethan:  until  in  the  courtly  compliments 
•of  Sedley  it  seems  to  exhaust  itself,  and  lie  almost  dormant  for 
the  hundred  years  between  the  davs  of  Wither  and  Suckling  and 
the  days  of  Burns  and  Cowper.  —  That  the  change  from  our  early 
style  to  the  modern  brought  with  it  at  first  a  loss  of  nature  and 
simplicity  is  undeniable:  yet  the  bolder  and  wider  scope  which 
Poetry  took  between  1620  and  1700,  and  the  successful  efforts 
•then  made  to  gain  greater  clearness  in  expression,  in  their  results 
iiave  been  no  slight  compensation. 

PAGE  NO. 

108  Ixxxv     1.  8  whist:  hushed. 

—  •  —  1.  32  than:  obsolete  for  then:  Pan:  used  here  for  the 
Lord  of  all. 

109  —     1.  38  consort:  Milton's  spelling  9f  this  word,  here  and 

elsewhere,  has  been  followed,  as  it  is  uncertain  whether 
he  used  it  in  the  sense  of  accompanying,  or  simply  for 
concert. 

111  —     1-21  Lars  and  Lemures:  household  gods  and  spirits  of 

relations  dead.  Flamens  (1.  24)  Roman  priests.  That 
twice-batter'd  god  (1.  29)  Dagon. 

112  —    1.   6   Osiris,    the   Egyptian   god   of   Agriculture    (here, 

perhaps  by  confusion  with  Apis,  figured  as  a  Bull), 
was  torn  to  pieces  by  Typho  and  embalmed  after  death 
in  a  sacred  chest.  This  mythe,  reproduced  in  Syria 
and  Greece  in  the  legends  of  Thammuz,  Adonis,  and 
perhaps  Absyrtus,  may  have  originally  signified  the 
annual  death  of  the  Sun  or  the  Year  under  the  influ- 
ences of  the  winter  darkness.  Horus,  the  son  of  Osiris, 
as  the  New  Year,  in  his  turn  overcomes  Typho.  L.  8 
unshower'd  grass:  as  watered  by  the  Nile  only.  L.  33 
youngest-teemed:  last-born.  Bright-harness'  a  (1.  37) 
armoured. 

114  Ixxxvii  The  Late  Massacre:  the  Vaudois  persecution, 
carried  on  in  1655  by  the  Duke  of  Savoy.  No  more 
mighty  Sonnet  than  this  'collect  in  verse,'  as  it  has 
been  justly  named,  probably  can  be  found  in  any  lan- 
guage. Readers  should  observe  that  it  is  constructed 
on  the  original  Italian  or  Provencal  model.  This  form, 
in  a  language  such  as  ours,  not  affluent  in  rhyme,  pre- 
sents great  difficulties;  the  rhymes  are  apt  to  be  forced, 
or  the  substance  commonplace.  But,  when  success- 


Notes  405 

PAGE   NO. 

fully  handled,  it  has  a  unity  and  a  beauty  of  effect 
which  place  the  strict  Sonnet  above  the  less  compact 
and  less  lyrical  systems  adopted  by  Shakespeare,  Sid- 
ney, Spenser,  and  other  Elizabethan  poets. 
115  Ixxxviii  Cromwell  returned  from  Ireland  in  1650,  and 
Marvell  probably  wrote  his  lines  soon  after,  whilst  liv- 
ing at  Nunappleton  in  the  Fairfax  household.  It  is 
hence  not  surprising  that  (st.  21 — 24)  he  should  have 
been  deceived  by  Cromwell's  professed  submissiveness 
to  the  Parliament  which,  when  it  declined  to  register 
his  decrees,  he  expelled  by  armed  violence: — one  despot- 
ism, by  natural  law,  replacing  another.  The  poet's 
insight  has,  however,  truly  prophesied  that  result  in 
his  last  two  lines. 

This  Ode,  beyond  doubt  one  of  the  finest  in  our  lan- 
guage, and  more  in  Milton's  style  than  has  been  reached 
by  anv  other  poet,  is  occasionally  obscure  from  imita- 
tion of  the  condensed  Latin  syntax.  The  meaning  of 
st.  5  is  'rivalry  or  hostility  are  the  same  to  a  lofty 
spirit,  and  limitation  more  hateful  than  opposition.' 
The  allusion  in  st.  11  is  to  the  old  physical  doctrines 
of  the  non-existence  of  a  vacuum  and  the  impenetra- 
bility of  matter: — in  st.  17  to  the  omen  traditionally 
connected  with  the  foundation  of  the  Capitol  at  Rome: 
— forced,  fated.  The  ancient  belief  that  certain  years 
in  life  complete  natural  periods  and  are  hence  peculiarly 
exposed  to  death,  is  introduced  in  st.  26  by  the  word 
climacteric. 

118  Ixxxix     Lycidas:  The  person  here  lamented  is  Milton's  col- 

lege contemporary,  Edward  King,  drowned  in  1637 
whilst  crossing  from  Chester  to  Ireland. 
Strict  Pastoral  Poetry  was  first  written  or  perfected 
by  the  Dorian  Greeks  settled  in  Sicily:  but  the  con- 
ventional use  of  it,  exhibited  more  magnificently  in 
Lycidas  than  in  any  other  pastoral,  is  apparently  of 
Roman  origin.  Milton,  employing  the  noble  freedom 
of  a  great  artist,  has  here  united  ancient  mythology, 
with  what  may  be  called  the  modern  mythology  of 
Camus  and  Saint  Peter, — to  direct  Christian  images. 
Yet  the  poem,  if  it  gains  in  historical  interest,  suffers 
in  poetry  by  the  harsh  intrusion  of  the  writer's  narrow 
and  violent  theological  politics. — The  metrical  structure 
of  this  glorious  elegy  is  partly  derived  from  Italian 
models. 

119  —     1.  11  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well:  the  Muses,  said  to  fre- 

quent the  Pierian  Spring  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Olympus. 

120  —     1.   10  Mona:  Anglesea,  called  by  the  Welsh  poets,  the 

Dark  Island,  from  its  dense  forests.  Deva  (I.  11)  the 
Dee:  a  river  which  may  have  derived  its  magical  char- 
acter from  Celtic  traditions:  it  was  long  the  boundary 
of  Briton  and  English. — These  places  are  introduced, 
as  being  near  the  scene  of  the  shipwreck.  Orpheus  (1. 
14)  was  torn  to  pieces  by  Thracian  women.  Amaryllis 


406  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

PAGE   NO. 

and  Neaera  (1.  24,  25)  names  used  here  for  the  love- 
idols  of  poets:  as  Damoetas  previously  for  a  shepherd. 
L.  31  the  blind  Fury:  Atropos,  fabled  to  cut  the  thread 
of  life. 

121  Ixxxix     Arethuse  (1.   1)  and  Mincius:  Sicilian  and  Italian 

waters  here  alluded  to  as  representing  the  pastoral 
poetry  of  Theocritus  and  Vergil.  L.  4  oat:  pipe,  used 
here  like  Collins'  oaten  stop  1.  1,  No.  186,  for  Song.  L. 
12  Hippotadcs:  Aeolus,  god  of  the  Winds.  Panope 
(1.  15)  a  Nereid.  Certain  names  of  local  deities  in  the 
Hellenic  mythology  render  some  feature  in  the  natural 
landscape,  which  the  Greeks  studied  and  analysed  with 
their  usual  unequalled  insight  and  feeling.  Panope 
seems  to  express  the  boundlessness  of  the  ocean-horizon 
when  seen  from  a  height,  as  compared  with  the  limited 
sky-line  of  the  land  in  hilly  countries  such  as  Greece  or 
Asia  Minor.  Camus  (1.  19)  the  Cam:  put  for  King's 
University.  The  sanguine  flower  (1.  22)  the  Hyacinth 
of  the  ancients:  probably  our  Iris.  The  Pilot  (1.  25) 
Saint  Peter,  figuratively  introduced  as  the  head  of  the 
Church  on  earth,  to  foretell  'the  ruin  of  our  corrupted 
clergy,'  as  Milton  regarded  them,  'then  in  their  heighth' 
under  Laud's  primacy. 

122  —     1.   1  scrannel:  screeching;  apparently  Milton's  coinage 

(Masson).  L.  5  the  wolf:  the  Puritans  of  the  time  were 
excited  to  alarm  and  persecution  by  a  few  conversions 
to  Roman  Catholicism  which  had  recently  occurred. 
Alpheus  (1.  9)  a  stream  in  Southern  Greece,  supposed 
to  flow  underseas  to  join  the  Arethuse.  Swart  star 
(1.  15)  the  Dog-star,  called  swarthy  because  its  heliacal 
rising  in  ancient  times  occurred  soon  after  midsummer: 
1.  19  rathe:  early.  L.  36  moist  vows:  either  tearful 
prayers,  or  praysts  for  one  at  sea.  Bellcrus  (1.  37)  a 
giant,  apparently  created  here  by  Milton  to  personify 
Belerium,  the  ancient  title  of  the  Land's  End.  The 
qreat  Vision: — the  story  was  that  the  Archangel  Michael 
had  appeared  on  the  rock  by  Marazion  in  Mount's  Bay 
which  bears  his  name.  Milton  calls  on  him  to  turn 
his  eyes  from  the  south  homeward,  and  to  pity  Lycidas, 
if  his  body  has  drifted  into  the  troubled  waters  off  the 
Land's  End.  Finisterre  being  the  land  due  south  of 
Marazion,  two  places  in  that  district  (then  through  our 
trade  with  Corunna  probably  less  unfamiliar  to  Eng- 
lish ears),  are  named, — Namancos  now  Mujio  in  Galicia, 
Bayona  north  of  the  Minho,  or  perhaps  a  fortified  rock 
(one  of  the  Cies  Islands)  not  unlike  Saint  Michael's 
Mount,  at  the  entrance  of  Vigo  Bay. 

123  Ixxxix    1.  6  ore:  rays  of  golden  light.     Doric  lay   (1.  25) 

Sicilian,  pastoral. 

125  xciii  The  assault  was  an  attack  on  London  expected  in 
1642,  when  the  troops  of  Charles  I  reached  Brentford. 
'Written  on  his  door'  was  in  the  original  title  of  this 
sonnet.  Milton  was  then  living  in  Aldersgate  Street. 


Notes  407 

PAGE  NO. 

125  xciii     The  Emathian  Conqueror:  When  Thebes  was  destroyed 

(B.C.  335)  and  the  citizens  massacred  by  thousands, 
Alexander  ordered  the  house  of  Pindar  to  be  spared. 

126  —    1.  2,  the  repeated  air  Of  sad  Electro's  poet:     Plutarch 

has  a  tale  that  when  the  Spartan  cpnfederacy  in  404 
B.C.  took  Athens,  a  proposal  to  demolish  it  was  rejected 
through  the  effect  produced  on  the  commanders  by 
hearing  part  of  a  chorus  from  the  Electro,  of  Euripides 
sung  at  a  feast.  There  is  however  no  apparent  con- 
gruity  between  the  lines  quoted  (167,  168  Ed.  Dindorf) 
and  the  result  ascribed  to  them. 

^j-  xcv  A  fine  example  of  a  peculiar  class  of  Poetry; — that 
written  by  thoughtful  men  who  practised  this  Art  but 
little.  Jeremy  Taylor,  Bishop  Berkeley,  Dr.  Johnson, 
Lord  Macaulay,  have  left  similar  specimens. 

128  xcviii     These  beautiful   verses   should   be  compared  with 

Wordsworth's  great  Ode  on  Immortality:  and  a  copy 
of  Vaughan's  very  rare  little  volume  appears  in  the 
list  of  Wordsworth's  library. — In  imaginative  intensity, 
Vaughan  stands  beside  his  contemporary  Marvell. 

129  xcix     Favonius:  the  spring  wind. 

130  c     Themis:   the  goddess   of  justice.     Skinner  was  grand- 

son by  his  mother  to  Sir  E.  Coke: — hence,  as  pointed 
out  by  Mr.  Keightley,  Milton's  allusion  to  the  bench. 
L.  8:  Sweden  was  then  at  war  with  Poland,  and  France 
with  the  Spanish  Netherlands. 

132  ciii  1.  28  Sidneian  showers:  either  in  allusion  to  the  con- 
versations in  the  'Arcadia,'  or  to  Sidney  himself  as  a 
model  of  'gentleness'  in  spirit  and  demeanour. 

135  cv  Delicate  humour,  delightfully  united  to  thought,  at 
once  simple  and  subtle.  It  is  full  of  conceit  and  para- 
dox, but  these  are  imaginative,  not  as  with  most  of 
our  Seventeenth  Century  poets,  intellectual  only. 

138  ex     Elizabeth  of  Bohemia:  Daughter  to  James  I,  and  an- 

cestor of  Sophia  of  Hanover.  These  lines  are  a  fine 
specimen  of  gallant  and  courtly  compliment. 

139  cxi     Lady  M.  Ley  was  daughter  to  Sir  J.  Ley,  afterwards 

Earl  of  Marlborough,  who  died  March,  1629,  coinci- 
dently  with  the  dissolution  of  the  third  Parliament  of 
Charles'  reign.  Hence  Milton  poetically  compares  his 
death  -to  that  of  the  Orator  Isocrates  of  Athens,  after 
Philip's  victory  in  328  B.C. 

143  cxviii  A  masterpiece  of  humour,  grace,  and  gentle  feeling, 
all,  with  Herrick's  unfailing  art,  kept  precisely  within 
the  peculiar  key  which  he  chose, — or  Nature  for  him, 
— in  his  Pastorals.  L.  2  the  god  unshorn:  Imberbis 
Apollo.  St.  2  beads:  prayers. 

146  cxxiii  With  better  taste,  and  less  diffuseness,  Quarles 
might  (one  would  think)  have  retained  more  of  that 


408  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

PAGE   NO. 

high  place  which  he  held  in  popular  estimate  among 
his  contemporaries. 

149  cxxvii     From  Prison:  to  which  his  active  support  of  Charles 

I  twice  brought  the  high-spirited  writer.  L.  7  Gods: 
thus  in  the  original;  Lovelace,  in  his  fanciful  way,  mak- 
ing here  a  mythological  allusion.  Birds,  commonly 
substituted,  is  without  authority.  St.  3,  1.  1  com- 
mitted: to  prison. 

150  cxxviii     St.  2  1.  4  blue-god:  Neptune. 

154  cxxxiii     Waly  waly:  an  exclamation  of  sorrow,   the  root 

and  the  pronunciation  of  which  are  preserved  in  the 
word  caterwaul.  Brae,  hillside:  burn,  brook:  busk,  adorn. 
Saint  Anton's  Well:  below  Arthur's  Seat  by  Edinburgh. 
Cramasie,  crimson. 

155  cxxxiv     This  beautiful  example  of  early  simplicity  is  found 

in  a  Song-book  of  1620. 

156  cxxxv     burd,  maiden. 

157  cxxxvi     corbies,  crows:  fail,  turf:  hause,  neck:  tlieek,  thatch. 

— If  not  in  their  origin,  in  their  present  form  this,  with 
the  preceding  poem  and  133,  appear  due  to  the  Seven- 
teenth Century,  and  have  therefore  been  placed  in 
Book  II. 

158  cxxxvii     The    poetical    and    the    prosaic,    after    Cowley's 

fashion,   blend  curiously  in  this  deeply-felt  elegy. 

162  cxli     Perhaps  no  poem  in  this  collection  is  more  delicately 

fancied,  more  exquisitely  finished.  By  placing  his 
description  of  the  Fawn  in  a  young  girl's  mouth,  Mar- 
veil  has,  as  it  were,  legitimated  that  abundance  of 
'imaginative  hyperbole'  to  which  he  is  always  partial: 
he  makes  us  feel  it  natural  that  a  maiden's  favourite 
should  be  whiter  than  milk,  sweeter  than  sugar — 'lilies 
without,  roses  within.'  The  poet's  imagination  is  justi- 
fied in  its  seeming  extravagance  by  the  intensity  and 
.unity  with  which  it  invests  his  picture. 

163  cxlii     The  remark  quoted  in  the  note  to  No.  65  applies 

equally  to  these  truly  wonderful  verses.  Marvell  here 
throws  himself  into  the  very  soul  of  the  Garden  with 
the  imaginative  intensity  of  Shelley  in  his  West  Wind. 
— This  poem  appears  also  as  a  translation  in  MarvelPs 
works.  The  most  striking  verses  in  it,  here  quoted 
as  the  book  is  rare,  answer  more  or  less  to  stanzas  2 
and  6:— : 

Alma  Quies,  teneo  te!  et  te,  germana'Quietis, 
Simplicitas!  vos  ergo  diu  per  templa,  per  urbes 
Quaesivi,  regum  perque  alta  palatia,  frustra: 
Sed  vos  hortorum  per  opaca  silentia,  longe 
Celarunt  plantae  virides,  et  concolor  umbra. 


Note»  409 

PAGE   NO. 

165  cxliii     St.  3  tutties:  nosegays.     St.  4  silly:  simple. 

L' 'Allegro  and  II  Penseroso.  It  is  a  striking  proof  of 
Milton's  astonishing  power,  that  these,  the  earliest  great 
Lyrics  of  the  Landscape  in  our  language,  should  still 
remain  supreme  in  their  style  for  range,  variety,  and 
melodious  beauty.  The  Bright  and  the  Thoughtful 
aspects  of  Nature  and  of  Life  are  their  subjects:  but 
each  is  preceded  by  a  mythological  introduction  in  a 
mixed  Classical  and  Italian  manner. — With  that  of 
L' Allegro  may  be  compared  a  similar  mythe  in  the  first 
Section  of  the  first  Book  of  S.  Marmion's  graceful  Cupid 
and  Psyche,  1637. 

166  cxliv     The  mountain-nymph;  compare  Wordsworth's  Son- 

net, No.  254.  L.  38  is  in  apposition  to  the  preceding, 
by  a  syntactical  license  not  uncommon  with  Milton. 

168  —    1.  14  Cynosure;  the  Pole  Star.     Corydon,  Thyrsis,  &c.: 

Shepherd  names  from  the  old  Idylls.  Rebeck  (1.  28) 
an  elementary  form  of  violin. 

169  —    1.  24  Jonson's  learned  sock:  His  comedies  are  deeply 

coloured  by  classical  study.  L.  28  Lydian  airs:  used 
here  to  express  a  light  and  festive  style  of  ancient 
music.  The  'Lydian  Mode,'  one  of  the  seven  original 
Greek  Scales,  is  nearly  identical  with  our  'Major.' 

170  cxlv    1.  3  bestead:  avail.     L.  19  starr'd  Ethiop  queen:  Cassi- 

opeia, the  legendary  Queen  of  Ethiopia,  and  thence 
translated  amongst  the  constellations. 

171  —     Cynthia,  the  Moon:  Milton  seems  here  to  have  trans- 

ferred to  her  chariot  the  dragons  anciently  assigned  to 
Demeter  and  to  Medea. 

172  —     Hermes,  called  Trismegistus,  a  mystical  writer  of  the 

Neo-Platonist  school.  L.  27  Thebes,  &c.:  subjects  of 
Athenian  Tragedy.  Buskin'd  (1.  30)  tragic,  in  opposi- 
tion to  sock  above.  L.  32  Musaeus:  a  poet  in  Mythol- 
ogy. L.  37  him  that  left  half-told:  Chaucer  in  his  in- 
complete 'Squire's  Tale.' 

173  —    yeat  bards:  Ariosto,  Tasso,  and  Spenser,  are  here  pre- 

sumably intended.  L.  9  frounced:  curled.  The  Attic 
Boy  (1.  10)  Cephalus. 

174  cxlvi     Emigrants  supposed  t<.  be  driven  towards  America 

by  the  government  of  Charles  I. 

175  —    1.  9,  10.     But  apples,  &c.     A  fine  example  of  Marvell's 

imaginative  hyperbole. 

cxlvii    1.  6  concent:  harmony. 

178  cxlix     A  lyric  of  a  strange,  fanciful,  yet  solemn  beauty: — 

Cowley's  style  intensified  by  the  mysticism  of  Henry 
More. — St.  2  monument:  the  World. 

179  cli     Entitled  'A  Song  in  Honour  of  St.  Cecilia's  Day:  1697.' 


410  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

Summary  of  Book  Third 

It  is  more  difficult  to  characterize  the  English  Poetry  of  the 
Eighteenth  century  than  that  of  any  other.  For  it  was  an  age 
not  only  of  spontaneous  transition,  but  of  bold  experiment:  it 
includes  not  only  such  absolute  contrasts  as  distinguish  the 
'Rape  of  the  Lock'  from  the  'Parish  Register,'  but  such  vast 
contemporaneous  differences  as  lie  between  Pope  and  Collins, 
Burns  and  Cowper.  Yet  we  may  clearly  trace  three  leading 
moods  or  tendencies: — the  aspects  of  courtly  or  educated  life 
represented  by  Pope  and  carried  to  exhaustion  by  his  followers; 
the  poetry  of  Nature  and  of  Man,  viewed  through  a  cultivated, 
and  at  the  same  time  an  impassioned  frame  of  mind  by  Collins 
and  Gray: — lastly,  the  study  of  vivid  and  simple  narrative,  in- 
cluding natural  description,  begun  by  Gay  and  Thomson,  pur- 
sued by  Burns  and  others  in  the  north,  and  established  in  England 
by  Goldsmith,  Percy,  Crabbe,  and  Cowper.  Great  varieties  in 
style  accompanied  these  diversities  in  aim:  poets  could  not  always 
distinguish  the  manner  suitable  for  subjects  so  far  apart:  and 
the  union  of  conventional  and  of  common  language,  exhibited 
most  conspicuously  by  Burns,  has  given  a  tone  to  the  poetry 
of  that  century  which  is  better  explained  by  reference  to  its 
historical  origin  than  by  naming  it  artificial.  There  is,  again, 
a  nobleness  of  thought,  a  courageous  aim  at  high  and,  in  a  strict 
sense  manly,  excellence  in  many  of  the  writers: — nor  can  that 
period  be  justly  termed  tame  and  wanting  in  originality,  which 
produced  poems  such  as  Pope's  Satires,  Gray's  Odes  and  Elegy, 
the  ballads  of  Gay  and  Carey,  the  songs  of  Burns  and  Cowper. 
In  truth  Poetry  at  this,  at  as  all  times,  was  a  more  or  less  un- 
conscious mirror  of  the  genius  of  the  age:  and  the  many  complex 
causes  which  made  the  Eighteenth  century  the  turniner-time 
in  modern  European  civilization  are  also  more  or  less  reflected 
in  its  verse.  An  intelligent  reader  will  find  the  influence  of 
Newton  as  markedly  in  the  poems  pf  Pope,  as  of  Elizabeth  in 
the  plays  of  Shakespeare.  On  this  great  subject,  however, 
these  indications  must  here  be  sufficient. 


184  cliii  We  have,  no  poet  more  marked  by  rapture,  by  the 
ecstasy  which  Plato  held  the  note  of  genuine  inspira- 
tion, than  Collins.  Yet  but  twice  9r  thrice  do  his 
lyrics  reach  that  simplicity,  that  sinceram  sermonis 
Attici  gratiam  to  which  this  ode  testifies  his  enthu- 
siastic devotion.  His  style,  as  his  friend  Dr.  Johnson 
truly  remarks,  was  obscure;  his  diction  often  harsh 
and  unskilfully  laboured;  he  struggles  nobly  against 
the  narrow,  artificial  manner  of  his  age,  but  his  too 
scanty  years  did  not  allow  him  to  reach  perfect  mastery. 
St.  3  Hybla:  near  Syracuse.  Her  whose  .  .  .  woe:  the 
nisrhting'ale,  'for  which  Sophocles  seems  to  have  enter- 
tained a  peculiar  fondness';  Collins  here  refers  to  the 
famous  chorus  in  the  Oedipus  at  Colonus.  St.  4  Cephisus: 
the  stream  encircling  Athens  on  the  north  and  west, 
passing  Colonus.  St.  6  stay'd  to  sing:  stayed  her  song 


Notes  411 

PAGE   NO. 

when  Imperial  tyranny  was  established  at  Rome.  St. 
7  refers  to  the  Italian  amourist  poetry  of  the  Renais- 
sance: In  Collins'  day,  Dante  was  almost  unknown  in 
England.  St.  8  meeting  soul:  which  moves  sympatheti- 
cally towards  Simplicity  as  she  comes  to  inspire  the 
poet.  St.  9  Of  these:  Taste  and  Genius. 

The  Bard.  In  1757,  when  this  splendid  ode  was  com- 
pleted, so  very  little  had  been  printed,  whether  in 
Wales  or  in  England,  in  regard  to  Welsh  poetry,  that 
it  is  hard  to  discover  whence  Gray  drew  his  Cymric 
allusions.  The  tabled  massacre  of  the  Bards  (shown  to 
jje  wiioily  groundless  in  Stephens'  Literature  of  the 
Kymry)  appears  first  in  the  family  history  of  Sir  John 
Wynn  of  Uvvydir  (cir.  1600),  not  published  till  1773; 
but  trie  story  seems  to  have  passed  in  MS.  to  Carte's 
History,  whence  it  may  have  been '  taken  by  Gray. 
The  references  to  high-born  Hoel  and  soft  Llewellyn;  to 
CadwaUo  and  Urien;  may,  similarly,  have  been  derived 
from  the  'Specimens'  of  early  Welsh  poetry,  by  the 
liev.  E.  Evans: — as,  although  not  published  till  1764, 
the  .VIS.,  we  learn  from  a  letter  to  Dr.  Wharton,  was  in 
Gray's  hands  by  July  1760,  and  may  have  reached  him  by 
1757.  It  is,  hovyever,  doubtful  whether  Gray  (of  whose 
acquaintance  with  Welsh  we  have  no  evidence)  must 
not  nave  been  also  aided  by  some  Welsh  scholar.  He 
is  one  of  the  poets  least  likely  to  scatter  epithets  at 
random:  'soft'  or  gentle  is  the  epithet  emphatically  and 
specially  given  to  Llewelyn  in  contemporary  Welsh 
poetry,  and  is  hence  here  used  with  particular  propriety. 
Yet,  without  such  assistance  as  we  have  suggested,  Gray 
could  hardly  have  selected  the  epithet,  although  applied 
to  the  King  (p.  141-3)  among  a  crowd  of  others,  in 
Llygad  Gwr's  Ode,  printed  by  Evans. — After  lament- 
ing his  comrades  (st.  2,  3)  the  Bard  prophesies  the  fate 
of  Edward  II,  and  the  conquests  of  Edward  III  (4): 
his  death  and  that  of  the  Black  Prince  (5):  of  Richard 
II,  with  the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster,  the  murder  of 
Henry  VI  (the  meek  usurper),  and  of  Edward  V  and  his 
brother  (6).  He  turns  to  the  glory  and  prosperity  fol- 
lowing the  accession  of  the  Tudors  (7),  through  Eliza- 
beth's reign  (8):  and  concludes  with  a  vision  of  the 
poetry  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton. 

190  clix     1.  13  Glo'ster:  Gilbert  de  Clare,  son-in-law  to  Edward. 

Mortimer,  one  of  the  Lords  Marchers  of  Wales. 

191  clix     High-born  Hoel,  soft  Llewellyn  (1.  15);  the  Dissertatio 

de  Bardis  of  Evans  names  the  first  as  son  to  the  King 
Owain  Gwynedd:  Llewelyn,  last  King  of  North  Wales, 
was  murdered  1282.  L.  16  CadwaUo:  Cadwallon  (died 
631)  and  Urien  Rheged  (early  kings  of  Gwynedd  and 
Cumbria  respectively)  are  mentioned  by  Evans  (p.  78) 
as  bards  none  of  whose  poetry  is  extant.  L.  20  Modred: 
Evans  supplies  no  data  for  this  name,  which  Gray  (it 
has  been  supposed)  uses  for  Merlin  (Myrddin  Wyllt), 


412  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

PAGE   NO. 

held  prophet  as  well  as  poet, — The  Italicized  lines  mark 
where,  the  Bard's  song  is  joined  by  that  of  his  prede- 
cessors departed.  L.  22  Ar von:  the  shores  of  Carnar- 
vonshire opposite  Anglesey.  Whether  intentionally  or 
through  ignorance  of  the  real  dates,  Gray  here  seems  to 
represent  the  Bard  as  speaking  of  these  poets,  all  of 
earlier  days,  Llewelyn  excepted,  as  his  own  contem- 
poraries at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

Gray,  whose  penetrating  and  powerful  genius  rendered 
him  in  many  ways  an  initiator  in  advance  of  his  age, 
is  probably  the  first  of  our  poets  who  made  some  acquaint- 
ance with  the  rich  and  admirable  poetry  in  which  Wales 
from  the  Sixth  Century  has  been  fertile. — before  and 
since  his  time  so  barbarously  neglected,  not  in  England 
only.  Hence  it  has  been  thought  worth  while  here  to 
enter  into  a  little  detail  upon  his  Cymric  allusions. 

192  —    1.  5  She-wolf:  Isabel  of  France,   adulterous  Queen  of 

Edward  II. — L.  35  Towers  of  Julius:  the  Tower  of  Lon- 
don, built  in  part,  according  to  tradition,  by  Julius 
Caesar. 

193  —     1.  2  bristled  boar:  the  badge  of  Richard  III.     L.  8  Half 

of  thy  heart:  Queen  Eleanor  died  soon  after  the  con- 
quest of  Wales.  L.  18  Arthur:  Henry  VII  named  his 
eldest  son  thus,  in  deference  to  native  feeling  and  story. 

194  clxi     The  Highlanders  called  the  battle  of  Culloden,  Dru- 

mossie. 

195  clxii     lilting,  singing  blithely:  loaning,  broad  lane:  bughts, 

pens:  scorning,  rallying:  dowie,  dreary:  daffin'  and  gab- 
bin',  joking  and  chatting:  Icglin,  milkpail:  shearing, 
reaping:  bantlxtcrs,  sheaf-binders:  li/art,  grizzled:  runkled, 
wrinkled:  fleeching,  coaxing:  gloaming,  twilight:  bogle, 
ghost:  dool,  sorrow. 

197  clxiv     The  Editor  has  found  no  authoritative  text  of  this 

poem,  to  his  mind  superior  to  any  other  of  its  class  in 
melody  and  pathos.  Part  is  probably  not  later  than 
the  seventeenth  century:  in  other  stanzas  a  more  mod- 
ern hand,  much  resembling  Scott's,  is  traceable.  Logan's 
poem  (163)  exhibits  a  knowledge  rather  of  the  old 
legend  than  of  the  old  verses. — Hecht,  promised;  the 
obsolete  hight:  mavis,  thrush:  ilka,  every:  lav'rock,  lark: 
haughs,  valley-meadows:  twined,  parted  from:  marrow, 
mate:  syne,  then. 

198  clxv     The  Royal  George,  of  108  guns,  whilst  undergoing  a 

partial  careening  at  Spithead,  was  overset  about  10 
A.M.  Aug.  29,  1782.  The  total  loss 'was  believed  to  be 
nearly  1000  souls. — This  little  poem  might  be  called 
one  of  our  trial-pieces,  in  regard  to  taste.  The  reader 
who  feels  the  vigour  of  description  and  the  force  of 
pathos  underlying  Cowper's  bare  and  truly  Greek  sim- 
plicity of  phrase,  may  assure  himself  se  valde  profecisse 
in  poetry. 


Notes  413 

PAGE   NO. 

201     clxvii     A  little  masterpiece  in  a  very  difficult  style:  Catullus 
himself  could  hardly  have  bettered  it.     In  grace,  ten- 
derness,  simplicity,    and   humour,    it   is  worthy   of  the 
Ancients:  and  even  more  so,  from  the  completeness  and 
1  unity  of  the  picture  presented. 

205  clxxii     Perhaps  no  writer  who  has  given  such  strong  proofs 

of  the  poetic  nature  has  left  less  satisfactory  poetry 
than  Thomson.  Yet  this  song,  with  'Rule  Britannia' 
and  a  few  others,  must  make  us  regret  that  he  did  not 
more  seriously  apply  himself  to  lyrical  writing. 

206  clxxiv     With  what  insight  and  tenderness,  yet  in  how  few 

words,  has  this  painter-poet  here  himself  told  Love's 
Secret! 

207  clxxvii     1.  1  Aeolian  lyre:  the  Greeks  ascribed  the  origin 

of  their  Lyrical  Poetry  to  the  Colonies  of  Aeolis  in  Asia 
Minor. 

208  —     Thracia's  hills   (1.   9)   supposed   a  favourite  resort  of 

Mars.  Feather'd  king  (1.  13)  the  Eagle  of  Jupiter,  ad- 
mirably described  by  Pindar  in  a  passage  here  imitated 
by  Gray.  Idalia  (1.  19)  in  Cyprus,  where  Cytherea 


mirably  described  by  Findar  in  a  pz 
by  Gray.  Idalia  (1.  19)  in  Cypn 
(Venus)  was  especially  worshipped. 


209  —    1.  6  Hyperion:  the  Sun.     St.  6 — 8  allude  to  the  Poets 

of  the  Islands  and  Mainland  of  Greece,  to  those  of  Rome 
and  of  England. 

210  —    1.  27  Theban  Eagle:  Pindar. 

213  clxxviii    1.  5  chaste-eyed  Queen:  Diana. 

214  clxxix     From  that  wild  rhapsody  of  mingled  grandeur,  ten- 

derness, and  obscurity,  that  'medley  between  inspira- 
tion and  possession,'  which  poor  Smart  is  believed  to 
have  written  whilst  in  confinement  for  madness.  • 

215  clxxxi     the  dreadful  light:  of  life  and  experience. 

216  clxxxii     Attic  warbler:  the  nightingale. 

218  clxxxiv  sleekit,  sleek:  bickering  brattle,  flittering  flight: 
laith,  loth:  pattle,  ploughs taff:  ivhyles,  at  times:  a  daim- 
enicker,  a  corn-ear  now  and  then:  thrave,  shock:  lave, 
rest:  foggage,  after-grass:  snell,  biting:  but  hald,  with- 
out dwelling-place:  thole,  bear:  cranreuch,  hoar-frost: 
thy  lane,  alone:  a-gley,  off  the  right  line,  awry. 

225  clxxxviii    stoure,  dust-storm;  braw,  smart. 

226  clxxxix     scaith,  hurt:  tent,  guard:  steer,  molest. 

227  cxci     drumlie,  muddy:  birk,  birch. 

228  cxcii     greet,  cry:  daurna,  dare  not. — There  can  hardly  exist 

a  poem  more  truly  tragic  in  the  highest  sense  than  this: 
nor,  perhaps,  Sappho  excepted,  has  any  Poetess  equalled 
it. 


414  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

PAGE   NO. 

230  cxciii     fou,  merry  with  drink:  coast,   carried:  unco  skeigh, 

very  proud:  gart,  forced:  abeigh,  aside:  Ailsa  craig,  a 
rock  in  the  Firth  of  Clyde:  orat  his  ecu  bleert,  cried  till 
his  eyes  were  bleared:  lowpin,  leaping:  linn,  waterfall: 
sair,  sore:  smoor'd,  smothered:  crouse  and  canty,  blithe 
and  gay. 

231  cxciv    Burns  justly  named  this  'one  of  the  most  beautiful 

songs  in  the  Scots  or  any  other  language.'  One  stanza, 
interpolated  by  Beattie,  is  here  omitted: — it  contains 
two  good  lines,  but  is  out  of  harmony  with  the  original 
poem.  Bigonet,  little  cap:  probably  altered  from  b&- 
guinette:  thraw,  twist:  caller,  fresh. 

232  cxcv     Burns  himself,   despite  two  attempts,  failed  to  im- 

prove this  little  absolute  masterpiece  of  music,  ten- 
derness, and  simplicity:  this  'Romance  of  a  life'  in 
eight  lines. — Eerie:  strictly,  scared:  uneasy. 

233  cxcvi     airts,   quarters:   row,   roll:  shaw,   small  wood  in  a 

hollow,  spinney:  knowes,  knolls.  The  last  two  stanzas 
are  not  by  Burns. 

234  cxcvii    jo,  sweetheart:  brent,  smooth:  pow,  head. 
• cxcviii     leal,  faithful.     St.  3  fain,  happy. 

235  cxcix     Henry  VI  founded  Eton. 

238  cc  Written  in  1773,  towards  the  beginning  of  Cowper's 
second  attack  of  melancholy  madness — a  time  when  he 
altogether  gave  up  prayer,  saying,  'For  him  to  implore 
mercy  would  only  anger  God  the  more.'  Yet  had  he 
given  it  up  when  sane,  it  would  have  been  'maior  in- 
sania.' 

241  .cciii  The  Editor  would  venture  to  class  in  the  very  first 
rank  this  Sonnet,  which,  with  204,  records  Cowper's 
gratitude  to  the  Lady  whose  affectionate  care  for  many 
years  gave  what  sweetness  he  could  enjoy  to  a  life 
radically  wretched.  Petrarch's  sonnets  have  a  more 
ethereal  grace  and  a  more  perfect  finish;  Shakespeare's 
more  passion;  Milton's  stand  supreme  in  stateliness; 
Wordsworth's  in  depth  and  delicacy.  But  Cowper's 
unites  with  an  exquisiteness  in  the  turn  of  thought 
which  the  ancients  would  have  called  Irony,  an  intensity 
of  pathetic  tenderness  peculiar  to  his  loving  and  ingen- 
uous nature. — There  is  much  mannerism,  much  that  is 
unimportant  or  of  now  exhausted  interest  in  his  poems: 
but  where  he  is  great,  it  is  with  that  elementary  great- 
ness which  rests  on  the  most  universal  human  feelings. 
Cowper  is  our  highest  master  in  simple  pathos. 

243  ccv  Cowper's  last  original  poem,  founded  upon  a  story 
told  in  Anson's  'Voyages/  It  was  written  March  1799; 
he  died  in  next  year's  April. 

245  ccvi  Very  little  except  his  name  appears  recoverable  with 
regard  to  the  author  of  this  truly  noble  poem,  which 


.Votes  415 

PAGE  NO. 

appeared  in  the  '  Scripscrapologia,  or  Collins'  Doggerel 
Dish  of  All  Sorts,'  with  three  or  four  other  pieces  of 
merit,  Birmingham,  1804. — Everlasting:  used  with 
side^-allusion  to  a  cloth  so  named,  at  the  time  when 
Collins  wrote. 


Summary  of  Book  Fourth 

It  proves  sufficiently  the  lavish  wealth  of  our  own  age  in  Poetry 
that  the  pieces  which,  without  conscious  departure  from  the 
standard  of  Excellence,  render  this  Book  by  far  the  longest, 
were  with  very  few  exceptions  composed  during  the  first  thirty 
years  of  the  Nineteenth  century.  Exhaustive  reasons  can 
hardly  be  given  for  the  strangely  sudden  appearance  of  indi- 
vidual genius:  that,  however,  which  assigns  the  splendid  national 
achievements  of  our  recent  poetry  to  an  impulse  from  the  France 
of  the  first  Republic  and  Empire  is  inadequate.  The  first  French 
Revolution  was  rather  one  result, — the  most  conspicuous,  in- 
deed, yet  itself  in  great  measure  essentially  retrogressive, — of 
that  wider  and-  more  potent  spirit  which  through  enquiry  and 
attempt,  through  strength  and  weakness,  sweeps  mankind  round 
the  circles  (not,  as  some  too  confidently  argue,  of  Advance,  but) 
of  gradual  Transformation:  and  it  is  to  this  that  we  must  trace 
the  literature  of  Modern  Europe.  But,  without  attempting  dis- 
cussion on  the  motive  causes  of  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  and 
others,  we  may  observe  that  these  Poets  carried  to  further  per- 
fection the  later  tendencies  of  the  Century  preceding,  in  sim- 
plicity of  narrative,  reverence  for  human  Passion  and  Character 
in  every  sphere,  and  love  of  Nature  for  herself:— that,  whilst 
maintaining  on  the  whole  the  advances  in  art  made  since  the 
Restoration,  they  renewed  the  half-forgotten  melody  and  depth 
of  tone  which  marked  the  best  Elizabethan  writers: — that,  lastly, 
to  what  was  thus  inherited  they  added  a  richness  in  language 
and  a  variety  in  metre,  a  force  and  fire  in  narrative,  a  tender- 
ness and  bloom  in  feeling,  an  insight  into  the  finer  passages  of 
the  Soul  and  the  inner  meanings  of  the  landscape,  a  larger  sense 
of  Humanity, — hitherto  scarcely  attained,  and  perhaps  unat- 
tainable even  by  predecessors  of  not  inferior  individual  genius. 
In  a  word,  the  Nation  which,  after  the  Greeks  in  their  glory, 
may  fairly  claim  that  during  six  centuries  it  has  proved  itself 
the  most  richly  gifted  of  all  nations  for  Poetry,  expressed  in  these 
men  the  highest  strength  and  prodigality  of  its  nature.  They 
interpreted  the  age  to  itself — hence  the  many  phases  of  thought 
and  style  they  present: — to  sympathize  with  each,  fervently  and 
impartially,  without  fear  and  without  fancifulness,  is  no  doubt- 
ful step  in  the  higher  education  of  the  soul.  For  purity  in  taste 
is  absolutely  proportionate  to  strength — and  when  once  the 
rnind  has  raised  itself  to  grasp  and  to  delight  in  excellence,  those 
who  love  most  will  be  found  to  love  most  wisely. 

But  the  gallery  which  this  Book  offers  to  the  reader  will  aid 
him  more  than  any  preface.  It  is  a  royal  Palace  of  Poetry  which 
he  is  invited  to  enter: 


416  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

Adparet  domus  intus,  et  atria  longa  patescunt — 
though  it  is,  indeed,  to  the  sympathetic  eye  only  that  its  treas- 
ures will  be  visible. 

PAGE   NO. 

247  ccviii  This  beautiful  lyric,  printed  in  1783,  seems  to 
anticipate  in  its  imaginative  music  that  return  to  our 
great  early  age  of  song,  which  in  Blake's  own  lifetime 
was  to  prove, — how  gloriously!  that  the  English  Muses 
had  resumed  their  'ancient  melody': — Keats,  Shelley, 
Byron, — he  overlived  them  all. 

249  ccx  stout  Cortez:  History  would  here  suggest  Balboa: 
(A.T.)  It  may  be  noticed,  that  to  find  in  Chapman's 
Homer  the  'pure  serene'  of  the  original,  the  reader 
must  bring  with  him  the  imagination  of  the  youthful 
poet; — he  must  be  'a  Greek  himself,'  as  Shelley  finely 
said  of  Keats. 

252  ccxii     The  most  tender  and  true  of  Byron's  smaller  poems. 

253  crxiii     This  poem  exemplifies  the  peculiar  skill  with  which 

Scott  employs  proper  names: — a  rarely  misleading  sign 
of  true  poetical  genius. 

263  ccxxvi  Simple  as  Lucy  Gray  seems,  a  mere  narrative  of 
what  'has  been,  and  may  be  again,'  yet  every  touch 
in  the  child's  picture  is  marked  by  the  deepest  and 
purest  ideal  character.  Hence,  pathetic  as  the  situa- 
tion is,  this  is  not  strictly  a  pathetic  poem,  such  as 
Wordsworth  gives  us  in  221,  Lamb  in  264,  and  Scott 
in  his  Maid  of  Neidpath, — 'almost  more  pathetic,'  as 
Tennyson  once  remarked,  'than  a  man  has  the  right 
to  be.'  And  Lyte's  lovely  stanzas  (224)  suggest,  per- 
haps, the  same  remark. 

272  ccxxxv  In  this  and  in  other  instances  the  addition  (or 
the  change)  of  a  Title  has  been  risked,  in  hope  that  the 
aim  9f  the  piece  following  may  be  grasped  more  clearly 
and  immediately. 

278  ccxlii  This  beautiful  Sonnet  was  the  last  word  of  a  youth, 
in  whom,  if  the  fulfillment  may  ever  safely  be  pro- 
phesied from  the  promise,  England  lost  one  of  the 
most  rarely  gifted  in  the  long  roll  of  her  poets.  Shakes- 
peare and  Milton,  had  their  lives  been  closed  at  twenty- 
five,  would  (so  far  as  we  know)  have  left  poems  of 
less  excellence  and  hope  than  the  youth  who,  from 
the  petty  school  and  the  London  surgery,  passed  at 
once  to  a  place  with  them  of  'high  collateral  glory.' 

280  ccxlv    It  is  impossible  not  to  regret  that  Moore  has  written 

so  little  in  this  sweet  and  genuinely  national  style. 

281  ccxlvi     A  masterly  example  of  Byron's  command  of  strong 

thousrht  and  close  reasoning  in  verse: — as  the  next  is 

equally  characteristic  of  Shelley's  wayward   intensity. 

290    ccliii     Bonnivard,  a  Genevese,  was  imprisoned  by  the  Duke 

of  Savoy  in  Chillon  on  the  lake  of  Geneva  for  his  cour- 


Notes  417 

PV3E  NO. 

ageous  defence  of  his  country  against  the  tyranny  with 
which  Piedmont  threatened  it  during  the  first  half  of 
the  Seventeenth  century. — This  noble  Sonnet  is  worthy 
to  stand  near  Milton's  on  the  Vaudois  massacre. 

291  ccliv  Switzerland  was  usurped  by  the  French  under  Napo- 
leon in  1800:  Venice  in  1797  (255). 

293  cclix  This  battle  was  fought  Dec.  2,  1800,  between  the 
Austrians  under  Archduke  John  and  the  French  under 
Moreau,  in  a  forest  near  Munich.  Hohen  Linden  means 
High  Limetrees. 

297  cclxii  After  the  capture  of  Madrid  by  Napoleon,  Sir  J. 
Moore  retreated  Before  Soult  and  Ney  to  Corunna,  and 
was  killed  whilst  covering  the  embarkation  of  his  troops. 

307  cclxxii     The  Mermaid  was  the  club-house  of  Shakespeare, 

Ben  Jonson,  and  other  choice  spirits  of  that  age. 

308  cclxxiii     Maisie:  Mary. — Scott  has  given  us  nothing  more 

complete  and  lovely  than  this  little  song,  which  unites 
simplicity  and  dramatic  power  to  a  wild-wood  music 
of  the  rarest  quality.  No  moral  is  drawn,  far  less  any 
conscious  analysis  of  feeling  attempted: — the  pathetic 
meaning  is  left  to  be  suggested  by  the  mere  present- 
ment of  the  situation.  A  narrow  criticism  has  often 
named  this,  which  may  be  called  the  Jlomeric  manner, 
superficial,  from  its  apparent  simple  facility;  but  first- 
rate  excellence  in  it  is  in  truth  one  of  the  least  com- 
mon triumphs  of  Poetry. — This  style  should  be  com- 
pared with  what  is  not  less  perfect  in  its  way,  the  search- 
ing out  of  inner  feeling,  the  expression  of  hidden  mean- 
ings, the  revelation  of  the  heart  of  Nature  and  of  the 
Soul  within  the  Soul, — the  analytical  method,  in  short, 
— most  completely  represented  by  Wordsworth  and  by 
Shelley. 

313  cclxxvii     Wolfe  resembled  Keats,  not  only  in  his  early  death 

by  consumption  and  the  fluent  freshness  of  his  poetical 
style,  but  in  beauty  of  character: — brave,  tender,  ener- 
getic, unselfish,  modest.  Is  it  fanciful  to  find  some 
reflex  of  these  qualities  in  the  Burial  and  Mary?  Out 
of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  .  .  . 

314  cclxxviii    correi:  covert  on  a  hillside.     Cumber:  trouble. 

315  cclxxx     This  book  has  not  a  few  poems  of  greater  power  and 

more  perfect  execution  than  Agnes  and  the  extract 
which  we  have  ventured  to  make  from  the  deep-hearted 
author's  Sad  Thoughts  (No.  224).  But  none  are  more 
emphatically  marked  by  the  note  of  exquisiteness. 

316  cclxxxi     st.  3  inch:  island. 

320  cclxxxiii  From  Poetry  for  Children  (1809),  by  Charles  and 
Mary  Lamb.  This  tender  and  original  little  piece 
seems  clearly  to  reveal  the  work  of  that  noble-minded 
and  afflicted  sister,  who  was  at  once  the  happiness,  the 


418  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

PAGE   NO. 

misery,  and  the  life-long  blessing  of  her  equally  noble- 
minded  brother. 

328  cclxxxix  This  poem  has  an  exaltation  and  a  glory,  joined 
with  an  exquisiteness  of  expression,  which  place  it  in  the 
highest  rank  among  the  many  masterpieces  of  its  illus- 
trious Author. 

339    ccc    interlunar  swoon:  interval  of  the  moon's  invisibility. 

344  ccciv    Calpe:    Gibraltar.     Lofoden:   the   Maelstrom   whirl- 

pool off  the  N.W.  coast  of  Norway. 

345  cccv    This  lovely  poem  refers  here  and  there  to  a  ballad 

by  Hamilton  on  the  subject  better  treated  in  163  and 

357  cccxv     Arcturi:   seemingly   used    for   northern  stars      And 

wild  roses,  &c.  Our  language  has  perhaps  no  line  mod- 
ulated with  more  subtle  sweetness. 

358  cccxvi     Coleridge  describes  this  poem  as  the  fragment  of 

a  dream-vision, — perhaps,  an  opium-dream? — which 
composed  itself  in  his  mind  when  fallen  asleep  after 
reading  a  few  lines  about  'the  Khan  Kubla'  m  Pur- 
chas  Pilgrimage. 

362  cccxviii  Ceres'  daughter:  Proserpine.  God  of  Torment: 
Pluto. 

370  cccxxi     The  leading  idea  of  this  beautiful  description  of  a 

day's  landscape  in  Italy  appears  to  be — On  the  voyage 
of  life  are  many  moments  of  pleasure,  given  by'  the 
sight  of  Nature,  who  has  power  to  heal  even  the  worldli- 
ness  and  the  uncharity  of  man. 

371  —    1.  23  Amphitrite  was  daughter  to  Ocean. 

375  cccxxii     1.   21   Maenad:  a  frenzied   Nymph,   attendant  on 

Dionysos  in  the  Greek  mythology.  May  we  not  call 
this  the  most  vivid,  sustained,  and  impassioned  amongst 
aH  Shelley's  magical  personifications  of  Nature? 

376  —    1.  5  Plants  under  water  sympathize  with  the  seasons 

of  the  land,  and  hence  with  the  winds  which  affect 
them. 

377  cccxxiii     Written  soon  after  the  death,  by  shipwreck,  ot 

Wordsworth's  brother  John.  This  poem  may  be  pro- 
fitably compared  with  Shelley's  following  it.  Each 
is  the  most  complete  expression  of  the  innermost  spirit 
of  his  art  given  by  these  great  Poets: — of  that  Idea 
which,  as  in  the  case  of  the  true  Painter,  (to  quote  the 
words  of  Reynolds,1)  'subsists  only  in  the  mind:  The 
sight  never  beheld  it,  nor  has  the  hand  expressed  it: 
it  is  an  idea  residing  in  the  breast  of  the  artist,  which 
he  is  always  labouring  to  impart,  and  which  he  dies 
at  last  without  imparting.' 

378  —    the  Kind:  the  human  race. 


Motes  419 

i'AUii  NO. 

381    cccxxvii    the  Royal  Saint:  Henry  VI. 

381  cccxxviii  st.  4  this  folk:  fls  has  been  here  plausibly  but, 
perhaps,  unnecessarily,  conjectured.  —  Every  one  Knows 
the  general  story  of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  of  the 
Revival  of  Letters.  —  From  Petrarch's  day  to  our  own, 
that  ancient  world  has  renewed  its  y9uth:  Poets  and 
artists,  students  and  thinkers,  have  yielded  themselves 
wholly  to  its  fascination,  and  deeply  penetrated  its 


spirit.  Yet  perhaps  no  one  more  truly  has  vivified, 
whilst  idealizing,  the  picture  of  Greek  country  life  in 
the  fancied  Golden  Age,  than  Keats  in  these  lovely  (if 


somewhat  unequally  executed)  stanzas:  —  his  quick 
imagination,  by  a  kind  of  'natural  magic,'  more  than 
supplying  the  scholarship  which  his  youth  had  no 
opportunity  of  gaining. 

155  cxxxiv  These  stanzas  are  by  Richard  Verstegan  (  —  c.  1635), 
a  poet  and  antiquarian,  published  in  his  rare  Odes 
(1601),  under  the  title  Our  Blessed  Ladies  Lullaby,  and 
reprinted  by  Mr.  Orby  Shipley  in  his  beautiful  Carmina 
Mariana  (1893).  The  four  stanzas  here  given  form 
the  opening  of  a  hymn  of  twenty-four. 


INDEX    OF    WRITERS 


WITH  DATES  OF  BIRTH  AND  DEATH 


ALEXANDER.  William  (1580-1640). 
To  Aurora        


BARBAULD,  Anna  Laetitia  (1743-1825). 
To  Life 


BARNEFIELD,  Richard  (16th  century). 
The  Nightingale 

BEAT-MONT,  Francis  (1586-1616). 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey 

BLAKE,  William  (1757-1827). 
Love's  Secret 
Infant  Joy 
A  Cradle  Song 
To  the  Muses 


BURNS,  Robert  (1759-1796). 

Lament  for  Culloden 

A  Farewell       

Ye  Banks  and  Braes  o'  Bonnie  Doon 

To  a  Mouse 

Mary  Morison      

Bonnie  Lesley 

'O  my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 

Highland  Mary 

Duncan  Gray      

Jean      

John  Anderson 


BYRON,  George  Gordon  Noel  (1788-1824). 

All  for  Love 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 
She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
When  we  two  parted 

421 


NUMBER 

xxix 
ccvii 

xlv 


.    .    .    .  xc 


clxxiv 
clxxx 
clxxxi 
ccvu'i 


clxi 

clxviii 

clxxvi 

clxxxiv 

clxxxviii 

clxxxix 

cxc 

cxci 

cxciii 

cxcvi 

cxcvii 


ccxii 
ccxiv 
ccxvi 
ccxxxiv 


422 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 


BYRON,  G.  G.  N.  (continued). 

Elegy  on  Thyrza 

ccxlvi 

On  the  Castle  of  Chillon       

ccliii 

Youth  and  Age      . 
Elegy    

.    .    .  cclxvi 
.    .    .  cclxxv 

CAMPBELL,  Thomas  (1777-1844). 
Lord  Ullin's  Daughter      

.    .    .  ccxxv 

To  the  Evening  Star     
Earl  March  look'd  on  his  dying  child   .    . 

.    .    .  ccxxxi 
.    .    .  ccxli 

Ye  Mariners  of  England       

.    .    .  ccl 

Battle  of  the  Baltic       

.    .    .  ccli 

Hohenlinden    
The  Beech  Tree's  Petition        

.    .    .  cclix 
.    .    .  ccxcv 

Ode  to  Winter    

.    .    .  ccciv 

Song  to  the  Evening  Star        
The  Soldier's  Dream      
The  River  of  Life      

.    .    .  cccx 
.    .    .  cccxiv 
.    .    .  cccxxxii 

CAMPION,  Thomas  (c.  1567-1620). 

Basia     

.    XXV 

Advice  to  a  Girl     

.    .    .  xxvi 

In  Imagine  Pertransit  Homo       

.    .    .  1 

Sleep   angry  beauty    sleep 

lii 

A  Renunciation      

.    .    .  Iv 

O  Crudelis  Amor    

.    .    .  lix 

Sic  Transit       

.    .    .  Ixxvi 

The  man  of  life  upright        
A  Hymn  in  Praise  of  Neptune   ..... 

.    .    .  Ixxix 

.    .    .   oi 

Fortunati  Nimium 

CAKBW,  Thomas  (1589-1639). 

The  True  Beauty 

CAREY,  Henry  ( 1743). 

Sally  in  our  Alley      

GIBBER,  Collev  (1671-1757). 

The  Blind  Boy        

COLERIDGE,  Hartley  (1796-1849). 
She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

COLERIDGE,  Samuel  Taylor  (1772-1834). 

Love  (Genevieve)       

Kubla  Khan        

Youth  and  Age       

COLLINS,  John  (18th  century). 

Tomorrow    .    .    . 

COLLINS,  William  (1720-1756). 

Ode  to  Simplicity       

Ode  written  in  1746      

The  Passions 

Ode  to  Evening 


cxliii 

cxii 

clxvii 

civ 

ccxviii 


ccxi 

cccxvi 

cccxxix 


.  ccvi 


cull 

dx 
olxxviii 

clxxxvi 


Index  of  Writers  423 

NUMBER 

COWLEY,  Abraham  (1618-1667). 

A  Supplication        ..............  cxxx 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  William  Hervey      ....  cxxxvii 

COWPER,  William  (1731-1800). 

Loss  of  the  Royal  George    ..........   clxv 

To  a  Young  Lady      .............  clxx 

The  Poplar  Field        .............  clxxxiii 

The  Shrubbery        ..............  cc 

The  Solitude  of  Alexander  Selkirk     ......  ccii 

To  Mary  Unwin      ..............  cciii 

To  the  Same   ................  cciv 

The  Castaway     ...............  ccv 

CRASHAW,  Richard  (16157-1652). 

Wishes  for  the  Supposed  Mistress      ......  ciii 

CUNNINGHAM,  Allan  (1784-1842). 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea       .......  ccxlix 

DANIEL,  Samuel  (1562-1619). 

Care-Charmer  Sleep        ............  xlvi 

DEKKER,  Thomas  (  -  1638?). 

The  Happy  Heart      .............  Ixxv 

DEVEREUX,  Robert  (Earl  of  Essex)  (1567-1601). 

A  Wish     .    .    ................  Ixxxiii 

DONNE,  John  (1573-1631). 

Present  in  Absence    .............  xii 

DRAYTON,  Michael  (1563-1631). 

Love'^  Farewell      ........    .    .....  -gliy 


DRUMMOXD,  William  (1585-1649). 

Summons  to  Love      .............  iv 

A  Lament    .................  Ixi 

To  his  Lute     ................  Ixiii 

This  Life,  which  seems  so  fair    ........  Ixxvii 

The  Lessons  of  Nature     ...........  Ixxx 

Doth  then  the  world  go  thus?    ........  Ixxxi 

Saint  John  Baptist     .............  Ixxxiv 

DRYDEX,  John  (1631-1700). 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1687     .......  Ixxxvi 

Alexander's  Feast       .............  cli 

ELLIOTT,  Jane  (18th  century). 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  (Flodden)  .....  clxii 

FLETCHER,  John  (1576-1625). 

Melancholy       ................  cxxxii 

GAY,  John  (1685-1732). 

Black-eyed  Susan       .............  clxvi 


424 


Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 


GOLDSMITH,  Oliver  (1728-1774). 
When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly      .    .    .    , 

GRAHAM,  Robert  (1735-1797). 
If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please       .    .    .    .    , 

GRAY,  Thomas  (1716-1771). 
Ode  on  the  Pleasure  arising  from  Vicissitude 
On  a  Favourite  Cat       
The  Bard      
The  Progress  of  Poesy      
Ode  on  the  Spring     
Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard 
Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College 
Hymn  to  Adversity       

GREENE,  Robert  (15617-1592). 
Sephestia's  Song  to  her  Child 

NUMBER 

,    .  clxxv 
.    .  clxix 

.    .   clii 
,    .  clvi 
,    .  clix 
.    .  clxxvii 
.    .   clxxxii 
.    .  clxxxvii 
.    .  cxcix 
,    .  cci 

Ix 

HABINGTON,  William  (1605-1645). 
Nox  Nocti  Indicat  Scientiam       

HERBERT,  George  (1593-1632). 
The  Gifts  of  God                    .    . 

,    .  cxlviii 
xcvii 

HERRICK,  Robert  (1591-1674?). 
Counsel  to  Girls      
To  Dianeme     

.    .  cviii 
.    .  cxiii 
cxviii 

The  Poetry  of  Dress,  I      

To  Anthea   
To  Blossoms        
To  Daffodils    

HEYWOOD,  Thomas  (  1649?). 
Give  my  Love  good-morrow        

HOOD,  Thomas  (1798-1845). 

.    .  cxix 
.    .   cxx 
.    .  cxxiv 
.    .  cxxxix 
.    .  cxl 

.    .  Ixxiii 
cclxviii 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs       
The  Death  Bed      

JONSON,  Ben  (1574-1637). 
The  Noble  Nature      
Hymn  to  Diana      
To  Celia 

.    .   cclxxiv 
.    .  cclxxix 

.    .  xcvi 
.    .  cii 

KEATS,  John  (1795-1821). 
Ode  on  the  Poets       
On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 
Happv  Insensibility       

.    .  ccix 
.    .  ccx 
.    .  ccxxxv 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci       ....'... 
Bright  Star!     
The  Terror  of  Death     

.    .  ccxxxvii 

.    .  ccxlii 
.    .  ccxliii 

The  Mermaid  Tavern    

.    .  cclxxii 

Index  of  Writers  425 

NUMBER 

KEATS,  J.  (continued). 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale ccxc 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent        .    .    .  ccxcii 

Ode  to  Autumn      ccciii 

The  Realm  of  Fancv cccxviii 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn      cccxxviii 

The  Human  Seasons cccxxxiii 

LAMB,  Mary  (1764-1847). 

In  Memoriam      cclxxxiii 

LAMB,  Charles  (1775-1835). 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces        cclxiv 

Hester       cclxxvi 

On  an  Infant  dying  as  soon  as  born cclxxxiL 

LINDSAY,  Anne  (1750-1825). 

Auld  Robin  Gray       cxcii 

LODGE,  Thomas  (1556-1625). 

Rosaline        xix 

Rosalynd's  Madrigal       Ixxi 

LOGAN,  John  (1748-1788). 

The  Braes  of  Yarrow        clxiii 

LOVELACE,  Richard  (1618-1658). 

To  Lucasta,  on  going  to  the  Wars cix 

To  Althea  from  Prison cxxvii 

To  Lucasta,  going  beyond  the  Seas       cxxviii. 

LYLYE,  John  (1554-1600). 

Cupid  and  Campaspe Ixxii 

LYTE,  Henry  Francis  (1793-1847). 

A  Lost  Love        ccxxiv 

Agnes        cclxxx 

MARLOWE,  Christopher  (1562-1593). 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love       ....  vii 

MARVELL,  Andrew  (1620-1678). 

Horatian    Ode,    upon    Cromwell's    return    from 

Ireland      Ixxxviii 

The  Picture  of  little  T.  C cv 

The  Girl  describes  her  Fawn       cxli 

Thoughts  in  a  Garden       cxlii 

Song  of  the  Emigrants  in  Bermuda       cxlvi 

MICKLE,  William  Julius  (1734-1788). 

The  Sailor's  Wife cxciv 

MILTON,  John  (1608-1674). 

Ode  on  the  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity     .    .    .  Ixxxv 

On  the  late  Massacre  in  Piedmont IxxxviE 

Lycidas Ixxxix 


426  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

NUMBER 

MILTON,  J.  (continued). 

When  the  Assault  was  intended  to  the  City       .    .  xciii 

On  his  Blindness xciv 

To  Mr.  Lawrence        xcix 

To  Cyriack  Skinner        ' c 

To  the  Lady  Margaret  Ley cxi 

L'Allegro      cxliv 

II  Penseroso cxlv 

At  a  Solemn  Music        cxlvii 

MOORE,  Thomas  (1780-1852). 

Echoes      ccxxix 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night ccxlv 

Pro  Patria  Mori      cclxi 

The  Journey  Onwards       cclxv 

The  Light  of  other  Days cclxix 

NAIRN,  Carolina  (1766-1845). 

'The  Land  o'  the  Leal cxcviii 

NASH,  Thomas  (1567-1601?). 

Spring       i 

NORRIS,  John  (1657-1711). 

Hymn  to  Darkness cxlix 

PHILIPS,  Ambrose  (1671-1749). 

To  Charlotte  Pulteney       clvii 

POPE,  Alexander  (1688-1744). 

Solitude cliv 

PRIOR,  MATTHEW  (1662-1721). 

The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure clxxiii 

QUARLES,   Francis  (1592-1644). 

A  Mystical  Ecstasy cxxiii 

ROGERS,  Samuel  (1762-1855). 

The  Sleeping  Beauty clxxi 

A  Wish clxxxv 

SCOTT,  Walter  (1771-1832). 

The  Outlaw ccxiii 

Jock  of  Hazeldean ccxxvii 

A  Serenade      ccxxx 

Where  shall  the  Lover  rest?        ccxxx vi 

The  Hover ccxxxviii 

The  Maid  of  Neidpath      ccxl 

Gathering  Song  of  Donald  the  Black ccxlviii 

The  Pride  of  Youth       cclxxiii 

Coronach cclxxviii 

Rosahelle      cclxxxi 

Hunting  Song cclxxxv 


Datur  Hora  Quieti cccxi 


Index  of  Writers  427 

NUMBER 

SEDLEY,  Charles  (1639-1701). 

Child  and  Maiden       cvi 

Not,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am        cxxvi 

SHAKESPEARE,  William  (1564-1616). 

The  Fairy  Life,  I ii 

"     II iii 

Sonnet-Time  and  Love,    I v 

II vi 

A  Madrigal       ix 

Under  the  greenwood  tree        x 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass      xi 

Sonnet — Absence ; xiv 


A  Consolation xvi 

-' "          The  Unchangeable xvii 

Sonnet      xviii 

v      "          To  his  Love xxiii 

—  "      -        "       "        xxiv 

Love's  Perjuries      xxvii 

Sonnet — True  Love        xxxi 

Carpe  Diem xxxv 

Winter      xxxvii 

Sonnet — That  time  of  year      xxxyiii 

Memory xxxix 

"          Revolutions xli 

Farewell!       xlii 

"          The  Life  without  Passion xliii 

Frustra — Take,  O  take  those  lips  away        .    .    .  xlviii 

Sonnet — Blind  Love      li 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind Ivi 

Birge  of  Love Ixii 

Fidele — Fear  no  more  the  heat       Ixiv 

A  Sea  Dirge Ixv 

Sonnet— Post  Mortem Ixvii 

The  Triumph  of  Death Ixyiii 

Young  Love Ixix 

Sonnet — Soul  and  Body        Ixxviii 

The  World's  Way      :  Ixxxii 

SHELLEY,  Percy  Bysshe  (1792-1822). 

The  Indian  Serenade ccxy 

I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden ccxix 

•    Love's  Philosophy      ccxxviii 

To  the  Night       ccxxxii 

The  Flight  of  Love        •.   ccxxxix 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned ccxlvii 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near  Naples    .    .    .  cclxx 

To  a  Skylark       cclxxxvii 

Ozymandias  of  Egypt £cxciii 

To  a  Lady,  with  a'  Guitar        ccc 

The  Invitation cccvii 

The  Recollection cccviii 

To  the  Moon       ' cccxii 

A  Dream  of  the  Unknown       cccxv 

Written  among  the  Euganean  Hills       cccxxi 


428  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

NUMBER 

SHELLEY,  P.  B.  (continued). 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind cccxxii 

The  Poet's  Dream cccxxiv 

A  Dirge cccxxxiv 

Threnos cccxxxy 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die cccxxxix 

SHIRLEY,  James  (1596-1666). 

The  Last  Conqueror xci 

Death  the  Leveller xcii 

SIDNEY,  Philip  (1554-1586). 

Via  Amoris xiii 

A  Ditty xxxii 

Sleep xl 

The  Nightingale xlvii 

The  Moon Iviii 

SMART,  Christopher  (1722-1770). 

The  Song  of  David        clxxix 

SOUTHEY,  Robert  (1774-1843). 

After  Blenheim       cclx 

The  Scholar cclxxi 

SPENSER,  Edmund  (1553-1598-9). 

Prothalamion       Ixxiv 

SUCKLING,  John  (1608-9-1641). 

Encouragements  to  a  Lover        cxxix 

SYLVESTER,  Joshua  (1563-1618). 

Love's  Omnipresence xxxiv 

THOMSON,  James  (1700-1748). 

Rule  Britannia        clviii 

For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove clxxii 

VAUGHAN,  Henry  (1621-1695). 

The  Retreat xcviii 

Friends  in  Paradise        cxxxviii 

A  Vision       cl 

VERSTEGAN,  Richard  (c.  1635). 

Upon  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits cxxxiv 

WALLER,  Edmund  (1605-1687). 

Go,  lovely  Rose      cxv 

On  a  Girdle cxxii 

WEBSTER,  John  ( 1638?). 

A  Land  Dirge Ixvi 

WILMOT,  John  (1647-1680). 

Constancy cvii 


Index  of  Writers 


WITHER,  George  (1588-1667). 

The  Manly  Heart       

WOLFE,  Charles  (1791-1823). 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 
To  Mary       


429 

NUMBER 

cxxxi 


cclxii 
cclxxvii 


WORDSWORTH,  William  (1770-1850). 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight        ccxvii 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways      ....   ccxx 

I  travell'd  among  unknown  men        ccxxl 

The  Education  of  Nature ccxxii 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal      ccxxiii 

Lucy  Gray       ccxxvi 

To  a  distant  Friend       ccxxxiii 

Desideria      ccxliv 

Ode  to  Duty    .    .    . '. cclii 

England  and  Switzerland,   1802       ccliv 

On  the  extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic     .    .  cciv 

London,   1802 cclvi 

cclvii 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory        cclviii 

Simon  Lee        cclxiii 

A  Lesson cclxvii 

The  Affliction  of  Margaret    .     i cclxxxiv 

To  the  Sk5'lark cclxxxvi 

'The  Green  Linnet       .-        .  cclxxxyii: 

To  the  Cuckoo        cclxxxix 

Upon  Westminster  Bridge  ccxci 

Composed  at  Neidpath  Castle ccxciv 

Admonition  to  a  Traveller       .    .  , ccxcvi 

To  the  Highland  Girl  of  Inversneyde        .    .        .  ccxcvii 

The  Reaper ccxcyiii 

The  Reverie  of  poor  Susan ccxcix 

,  The  Daffodils       ccci 

*Tb  the  Daisy       cccii 

Yarrow  Unvisited,   1803 .  cccv 

Yarrow  Visited,  1814 cccyi 

By  the  Sea      .  cccix 

To  Sleep       cccxiii 

The  Inner  Vision .  cccxvii 

Written  in  Early  Spring       cccxix 

Ruth,  or  the  Influences  of  Nature cccxx 

Nature  and  the  Poet cccxxiii 

Glen-Almain,  the  Narrow  Glen cccxxv 

The  World  is  too  much  with  us cccxxvi 

Within  King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge        .    .  cccxxvii 

The  Two  April  Mornings      cccxxx 

The  Fountain      cccxxxi 

The  Trossachs cccxxxvi 

My  heart  leaps  up cccxxxvii 

Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality       cccxxxviii 

WOOTTON,  Henry  (1568-1639). 

Character  of  a  Happy  Life      xcv 

Elizabeth  of  Bohemia       ex 


430  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

NTJMBEl 

WYAT,  Thomas  (1503-1542). 

A  Supplication        xxviii 

The  Lover's  Appeal       xliv 

ANONYMOUS. 

Omnia  Vincit       viii 

Colin xx 

A  Picture xxi 

A  Song  for  Music       xxii 

In  Lacrimas xxxi 

Love's  Insight xxxiii 

An  honest  Autolycus xxxvi 

The  Unfaithful  Shepherdess liii 

Advice  to  a  Lover liv 

A  sweet  Lullaby Ivii 

A  Dilemma      . " Ixx 

The  Great  Adventurer      civ 

Love  in  thy  youth',  fair  Maid cxiv 

Cherry  Ripe cxvii 

My  Love  m  her  attire       cxxi 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace        cxxv 

Forsaken      cxxxiii 

Fair  Helen       cxxxv 

The  Twa  Corbies        cxxxvi 

Willie  Drowned  in  Yarrow       clxiv 

Absence cxcv 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

A  Chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 261 

A  child's  a  plaything  for  an  hour      320 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 355 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal       260 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 145 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid      275 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea       285 

Absence,  hear  thou  this  protestation 58 

Ah,  Chloris!  could  I  now  but  sit        136 

Ah!  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh 267 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moor'd 199 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights       249 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true      231 

And  is  this — Yarrow? — This  the  Stream       347 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 281 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus      76 

Ariel  to  Miranda: — Take       /   .    .    .    .  338 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 355 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers       100 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day        77 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane      157 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 301 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears      .    .  338 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly      .  280 

Avenge,  O  Lord!  Thy  slaughter'd  saints,  whose  bones       .    .  114 

Awake,  Aeolian  lyre,  awake 207 

Awake,  awake,  my  Lyre      151 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 247 

Beauty  sat  bathing  by  a  spring 63 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 337 

Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend 59 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed       327 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away       349 

Bid  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live       147 

Blest  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heaven's  joy 175 


blow,  thou  winter  wind 
Bright  Star!  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art 
Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren       .    .    . 
Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  air 
Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  Arms       .    .    .    . 
Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  Sable  Night    .    .    . 

431 


84 
278 

91 

95 
125 

78 


432  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

PAGE 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death 88 

Come,  cheerful  day,  part  of  my  life  to  me      101 

Come  little  babe,  come  silly  soul 85 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love 55 

Come,  Sleep:  O  Sleep!  the  certain  knot  of  peace 74 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands 52 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth       56 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe"  play'd. 94 

Cyriack,  whose  grandsire,  on  the  royal  bench 130 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power        238 

Daughter  to  that  good  Earl,  once  President 139 

Degenerate  Douglas!  oh,  the  unworthy  lord         333 

Doth  then  the  world  go  thus,  doth  all  thus  move    ....  104 

Down  in  yon  garden  sweet  and  gay 197 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 142 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo       230 

Earl  March  look'd  on  his  dying  child 278 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair 331 

E'en  like  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks 146 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  .Mind 290 

Ethereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the  sky        323 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam 360 

Fain  would  I  change  that  note      56 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see        161 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree 160 

Farewell!  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing       75 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 90 

Fine  knacks  for  ladies,  cheap,  choice,  brave  and  new    ...     72 

Follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow       80 

For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove 205 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent       68 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year        389 

From  Harmony,  from  heavenly  Harmony        113 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen      345 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies 90 

Gather  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may 137 

Gem  of  the  crimson-colour'd  Even 268 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame!    The  blooming  morn 143 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine       202 

Go,  lovely  Rose      141 

Hail  thou  most  sacred  venerable  thing 178 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit        324 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 186 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I        .128 

Happy  were  he  could  finish  forth  his  fate       105 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 140 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain 314 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights        153 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy      166 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys       170 

He  sang  of  God,  the  mighty  source 214 

High-way,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be       59 


Index  of  First  Lines  433 

PAGE 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught        126 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been        60 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest      194 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes       267 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze       163 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey 240 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  Thee 255 

I  cannot  change,  as  others  do 137 

I  dream'd  that  as  I  wander'd  by  the  way       357 

I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden 258 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions 300 

I  have  no  name 215 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes     .    -. 362 

I  meet  thy  pensive,  moonlight  face       261 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land        332 

I  remember,  I  remember 304 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night       179 

I  saw  her  in  childhood 315 

I  saw  my  lady  weep 69 

I  saw  where  in  the  shroud  did  lurk      318 

I  travell'd  among  unknown  men        258 

I  wander'd  lonely  as  a  cloud       341 

I  was  thy  neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  Pile       377 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies      156 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 220 

If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please       203 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died 313 

If  Thou  survive  my  well-contented  day 91 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be      150 

I'm  wearing  awa',  Jean 234 

In  a  drear-nighted  December      272 

In  the  downhill  of  life,  when  I  find  I'm  declining     ....  245 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan 298 

In  this  still  place,  remote  from  men 379 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan       358 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free 353 

It  is  not.  growing  like  a  tree 127 

It  was  a  dismal  and  a  fearful  night      158 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass 58 

It  was  a  summer  evening 294 

I've  heard  them  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking 195 

Jack  and  Joan,  they  think  no  ill 165 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John        234 

Lady,  when  I  behold  the  roses  sprouting •.    .  93 

Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son 129 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds      70 

Life!  I  know  not  what  thou  art 246 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore      ...  75 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere        62 

Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee        93 

Love  in  thy  youth,  fair  Maid,  be  wise 140 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace        148 

Lo!  where  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours        216 


434  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

PAGE 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be       .    . 370 

Mary!  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings        241 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour       292 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill      219 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear       123 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes   .    .    . 359 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold       249 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die 396 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past 307 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 329 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold      .    .    . 391 

My  Love  in  her  attire  doth  shew  her  wit        146 

My  lute,  be  as  thou  wert  when  thou  didst  grow        ....  89 

My  thoughts  hold  mortal  strife      88 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his 70 

Never  love  unless  you  can       66 

Never  seek  to  tell  thy  love 206 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead      92 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note 297 

Not,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am        .    .    . 148 

Now  the  golden  Morn  aloft 183 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days 351 

O  blithe  new-comer!  I  have  heard 328 

O  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair        253 

O  Friend!  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look       292 

O  happy  shades!  to  me  unblest      238 

O  if  thou  knew'st  how  thou  thyself  dost  harm 68 

O  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me      333 

81isten,  listen,  ladies  gay        316 

lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see       277 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be 225 

O  me!  what  eyes  hath  love  put  in  my  head       81 

8  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming 72 

my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose       227 

O  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart      61 

O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 226 

O  say  what  is  that  thing  call'd  Light       186 

O  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story 252 

O  Thou,  by  Nature  taught      184 

O  waly  waly  up  the  bank        154 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms 274 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being     .    .    .  375 

O  World!  O  Life!  O  Time        390 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky       243 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart       201 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 233 

8f  Nelson  and  the  North 287 

f  Neptune's  empire  let  us  sins 130 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do  name        103 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray       263 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night       305 

Oh  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom        312 

On  a  day,  alack  the  day 67 

On  a  Poet's  lips  I  slept        379 


Index  of  First  Lines  435 

PAGE 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee 291 

One  more  Unfortunate 309 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 283 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 293 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had  lower'd     .    .    356 
Over  the  mountains       134 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day 95 

Phoebus,  arise 52 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu .  283 

Poor  Soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth 102 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood 308 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair        131 

Plough  Wind,  that  meanest  loud        389 

Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King        190 

Season  of  mist  and  mellow  fruitfulness 343 

See  with  what  simplicity •. 135 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day 65 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair       152 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 258 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 257 

She  walks,  in  beauty,  like  the  night 256 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight        256 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea     ...  54 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part        ....  80 

Sleep,  angry  beauty,  sleep  and  fear  not  me 81 

Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile 204 

Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright       215 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone 307 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king        .    .  51 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee 354 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God 289 

Surprized  by  joy — impatient  as  the  wind 280 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes 140 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 335 

Sweet  Love,  if  thou  wilt  gain  a  monarch's  glory       ....  64 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade 204 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave 269 

Take,  O  take  those  lips  away 79 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  expense 381 

Tell  me  not.  Sweet,  I  am  unkind       138 

Tell  me  where  is  Fancy  bred      92 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 73 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 146 

•The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day        222 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear 115 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 266 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 124 

The  last  and  greatest  Herald  of  Heaven's  King 105 

The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness        194 

The  man  of  life  upright        102 

The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure 205 


436  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury 

PAGE 

The  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear        388 

The  Nightingale,  as  soon  as  April  bringeth .  78 

The  poplars  are  fell'd;  farewell  to  the  shade       217 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters       254 

There  is  a  flower,  the  lesser  Celandine 303 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 142 

There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes  away  302 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass        390 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream     .    .    .391 

The  sea  hath  many  thousand  sands      83 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear 306 

The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low 354 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past 242 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon       380 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light 159 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and  will  do  none      ....  76 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn 106 

This  Life,  which  seems  so  fair 101 

Though  others  may  her  brow  adore      71 

Thou  art  not  fair,  for  all  thy  red  and  white       84 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness 381 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower 259 

Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream 196 

Timely  blossom,  Infant  fair 188 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry        104 

Toll  for  the  Brave 198 

To  me,  fair  Friend,  you  never  can  be  old 61 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent        332 

Turn  back,  you  wanton  flyer      66 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won      179 

'Twas  on  a  lofty  vase's  side       187 

Two  Voices  are  there;  one  is  of  the  Sea       291 

Under  the  greenwood  tree        57 

Upon  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits 155 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying 383 

Victorious  men  of  earth,  no  more 124 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay       322 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie 218 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee       87 


Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains      64 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain 71 

We  talk'd  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 386 


We  walk'd  along,  while  bright  and  red 384 

We  watch 'd  her  breathing  thro'  the  night       315 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes 145 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command        189 

When  first  the  fiery-mantled  Sun       344 

When  God  at  first  made  Man 128 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name      ....  296 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall        73 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent       126 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 293 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 279 


IndeA  of  First  Lines  437 

PAGE 

When  i  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced 54 

When  I  survey  the  bright        176 

When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 232 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes      60 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time      65 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly      206 

When  Love  with  unconnne"d  wings        149 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 312 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young 211 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate 363 

When  the  lamp  is  shatter'd 276 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  at  hame       .  228 

When  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  underground      ....  87 

W.hen  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 74 

When  we  two  parted 271 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son       320 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest 272 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I 52 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride      174 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow 247 

While  that  the  sun  with  his  beams  hot        82 

Whoe'er  she  be       132 

Why  art  thou  silent?    Is  thy  love  a  plant       270 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover 150 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie 265 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies      .    .  86 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see       341 

With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first        162 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 227 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Boon 207 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers 235 

Ye  Mariners  of  England        285 

Yes,  there  is  holy  pleasure  in  thine  eye       334 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more      118 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night 138 


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